


Come Set Me Free

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Homophobia, Human AU, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of HIV/AIDS, Mentions of childhood abuse, Mentions of sex work, Misgendering, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Pining, Protective!Crowley, Religious Guilt, Slow Burn, Smut, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), mentions of domestic violence, mentions of drug abuse, soft!aziraphale, strict religious upbringing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 111,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Aziraphale, a humble, inexperienced bookstore owner, marries Gabriel, an up and coming spiritual and relationship guru, author of a wildly popular series of books on maintaining a happy marriage in the new age. They move together to New York state to help support Gabriel's flourishing career, and Aziraphale finds himself a kept man in a stilted marriage.Gabriel inherits a sprawling Victorian manor house up in the Catskills and a faded greenhouse when his father passes away. They hire Crowley, a talented horticulturist with a shady past to bring the greenhouse back to life, and Aziraphale is instantly smitten. He's also dedicated to his marriage, even though he is coming to terms with the fact that it's unraveling. Anyway, it's a moot point, Crowley is straight... or so Aziraphale and Gabriel assume...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 274
Kudos: 382
Collections: Good  but with mature themes, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So much to say up front.
> 
> 1\. I'll try my best to include relevant warnings on chapters with triggering content. I don't go into much detail with these subjects, but I want to give readers a heads up.
> 
> 2\. I absolutely want to acknowledge the plethora of truly profound and useful information in many new age philosophies and in the broad spectrum of meditation (from Buddhist to secular) that exists out there. Gabriel is actually quite good at what he teaches and writes about. I want readers to know that even though I've written the villain of this fic as espousing these concepts, I myself have nothing but respect for those who follow these types of advice and self help content. I follow them myself. Some of it is crap and some of it is life changing, and I by no means intend to cast aspersions on the entirety of new age self help.
> 
> 3\. This is a WIP, but it's nearing completion. No clue how many chapters yet, but it should be all up within the next week or so. As always, thank you for the kudos and comments! They mean the world to me.
> 
> And thanks as always to my hard working, insightful beta reader emilycare. Your help with plot points and wording is nothing short of miraculous. <3

Aziraphale took a moment in the kitchen to calm his nervous pulse and wipe his sweating palms on a scrap of paper towel. Gabriel was busy in the sitting room, taking the Bradfords and the Coleson’s through a guided meditation on opening their hearts to one another and sharing their truth. 

Aziraphale always felt like something of a performing monkey when Gabriel had clients over for his weekend workshops/retreats. They’d wander around, wide eyed and unnecessarily impressed by their house ( _Gabriel’s_ house really, if Aziraphale were being honest, for he’d had nothing to do with its acquisition). As if the walls themselves held the power to heal strained relationships. As if Gabriel radiated a beneficent energy that had saturated the carpets and subtle watercolor landscapes hanging on the walls with the ability to knit unraveling marriages back together.

These people, these couples who took the time to travel here from all over the country, and even from Europe, flying into Newark or JFK, or sometimes White Plains and making the two hour drive to their large, spralling Victorian style house for the weekend, were always in awe of Gabriel. Most people were. He was an imposing figure. Six feet six inches tall. Broad shouldered, square jawed and classically handsome, just like the American movie stars Aziraphale had grown up daydreaming about. His deep, self assured voice and confident mannerisms had a way of calming and centering those he spoke to. And those who disagreed with him, soon found themselves the target of a razor sharp wit that cut them to the bone and reminded them that Gabriel and Gabriel alone was the dominant one in the room. He rarely ever used his harsher words on clients, but others were not so lucky.

Aziraphale had been the target of such a wit many times, when he disagreed too stringently with Gabriel, or when he wasn’t impressed enough with Gabriel’s sometimes banal observations about interpersonal relationships. But mostly, Gabriel treated him with amiable friendliness, and a habitual sort of affection that had grown less warm and more practiced as the years had gone by. 

They’d met just as Aziraphale was entering his thirties. He’d bought the bookshop in Soho (with the help of his parents) as a way to fill his days and as an excuse to collect as many books as possible. It gave him a valid reason to spend the majority of his time lost in the pages of obscure first editions, and kept his head above the waters of unsettling eccentricity. At least the dangerous sort of eccentricity that drove people away and made them whisper about him behind his back, rather than the charming kind that endeared people to him. He luckily seemed to have landed firmly on the charming side of things, and many people had told him so. _Oh Aziraphale, you are so sweet! You’re so charming! I just love your little bow ties!_

People never seemed to understand that he didn’t make the choice to wear old fashioned waistcoats or tartan bow ties out of a desire to be charming. They simply suited his quiet, old fashioned sensibilities. Still, his antiquated wardrobe, combined with his wild head of white-blond curls and his naturally sunny and helpful disposition had people routinely calling him things like “adorable” and “darling” and “cute.” 

And when they saw him and Gabriel together? Well people were just endlessly charmed. Where they now lived, in a wealthy area of mid-state New York, an hour or so outside of Pougkeepsie, it was fashionable to be a happily married gay couple with impeccable taste in home decore, and matching coffee cups with inspirational sayings printed on them. They weren’t those scary gays, the kinky, promiscuous ones from the city that straight people found fascinating, but ultimately intimidating and unsettling. Aziraphale and Gabriel were Martha Stewart gays. Everyone gushed over what a beautiful couple they made. Tall, handsome Gabriel and sweet, plump Aziraphale. Oh my how _adorable._

Only Aziraphale didn’t _feel_ adorable. He felt hopelessly frumpy and outdated. Gabriel, ridiculously fit for a man of almost fifty, was always dressed to the nines in the latest fashions. Nothing too sexy. Just soft, angora sweaters and sharply tailored button down shirts and dark gray woolen blazers and shining, expensive leather shoes. He had an image and a reputation to upkeep. One where he was the dynamic, insightful author of several books on maintaining a happy marriage in the new age, and he’d carefully curated that image over the two decades that they’d been together. When Aziraphale met Gabriel, back in Soho, twenty years ago, the man been a good deal more casual, much more carefree. Not so aware of his image all the time. He’d been solicitous and charming too. Winking at Aziraphale over the top of a bookshelf while browsing through the store. Making sassy comments and dirty jokes to get Aziraphale blushing and laughing. 

Things had been different then. Now, Gabriel was polished and professional and extremely aware of the exact size and shape of the image he was meant to maintain, and all the little things that needed to be done in order to maintain it. Things like having Aziraphale bring his guests a tray of drinks and sit and chat with them so that they could see how sweet Aziraphale was, and how devoted he was as a husband. So that Gabriel’s clients could witness their warmth and obvious love for each other. Gabriel couched it in terms of Aziraphale “stopping in to say hello,” as if it were as simple as that. 

Regardless of what Gabriel said, Aziraphale knew that he was playing a role. Knew his little visits with lemonade or coffee or a charmingly antique silver tea pot and darling little china cups was a calculated move on Gabriel’s behalf. Still, even though the dancing monkey routine got tiresome after a while, he loved his husband, even now that their lives had become more stilted, less spontaneous and a lot less passionate. He owed everything he had to Gabriel, and he wanted to be supportive. 

In the beginning, when they’d moved here from London, in 2016 it had been easier to upkeep the image. Aziraphale had been proud of his husband for rocketing to the top of the New York Times best seller list with his sixth novel (Finding The Center Within: A Guide To Keeping Passion Alive Through Meditative Practice). He’d adored the three story, eight bedroom victorian style house they’d moved to. The house that Gabriel had inherited from his father upon his passing a year prior. He’d spent an enjoyable year or so in decorating and helping Gabriel with plans for renovation. He’d walked through the massive yet sadly neglected greenhouse that sat like a great glass beast, crouched on the side of the house, gleaming in the sunlight. The plants were half dead and the slate tiles of the walkway between the rows were covered with a variety of dried, fallen leaves, a veritable graveyard for plant detritus. 

It was Aziraphale’s idea to hire someone to rebuild the greenhouse to its former glory. 

“Just think dear, it will be resplendent when it’s back to how it was when your father owned the house. Your guests will be ever so impressed. And it would give me somewhere nice to spend my time. We could set up a little table and some chairs for me to have tea with Michael and Uriel.”

“Resplendent,” muttered Gabriel, unable to hide the irritation from his voice. Aziraphale knew that his antiquated vocabulary often got on Gabriel’s nerves, but his husband’s overt criticisms of it had worn away over the years of their marriage to mere sarcastic repetitions under his breath. “Babe, it’ll cost a fortune to upkeep that greenhouse.”

“Well, what are you, if not nouveau riche? You know you have the money,” Aziraphale, stung by the well worn passive aggression over his vocabulary, hadn’t given in, had snapped back a bit in a rare show of sass. There were very few things he had control over in his new life with his now famous husband, in this unfamiliar part of an unfamiliar country, and he longed to see the dying plants in that greenhouse brought back to their prime.

“Yeah. I guess so... maybe,” Gabriel seemed to partially relent. At least enough not to outright reject Aziraphale’s request. “Let me sleep on it,” he’d mumbled. 

A month later, when Aziraphale had gently brought the subject up again, Gabriel had grudgingly agreed that it was a good idea. He’d even taken out an ad in a few local papers and had gone on Monster.com to look at qualified groundskeepers. “We could really use a driver too,” he remarked while writing up the advert. “You don’t drive, and I feel like a total pleb using Uber after drinking too much at my writing events.”

Aziraphale had nodded in agreement, secretly very excited by the prospect of having a lovely greenhouse to spend time in, possibly to help learn about its upkeep? It would give him something new to do. He’d gotten frightfully unnecessary since they’d moved to Athena. At least back home in London, he’d had his bookshop, and a few dear friends. But he’d left all of that to support his husband’s new found success in the new age therapy business, and to support his decision to move back to the states to further pursue his career. How could Aziraphale use the excuse that he wanted to keep working at an old bookshop full of books he secretly didn’t even want to sell, when Gabriel was following his dreams and becoming a world renowned author and spiritual guru?

It just wasn’t enough of a reason for him to stay. Even though he loved that massive old bookshop, loved his friends from back home, he had to admit to himself that he was nothing without Gabriel. If Gabriel left him, he’d simply slip back into the life he’d lead before his husband had come along. Having drinks with Anathema and Deirdre a few times a month. Scaring customers away from his books. Sleeping alone every night, too put off by the flashing lights and pumping music to go out to the clubs and too insecure to actually ask a man out on a date. 

What’s more, there’d be no trips to the city for lavish weekend getaways. No massive private library that Gabriel had promised him he’d have in his new Victorian home. No more handsome man who supported him and loved him and made him feel special. No more sex. Aziraphale would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the sex. Gabriel had cooled off significantly in the past few years, but they still had what Aziraphale considered a relatively healthy sex life. Especially for a couple who’d been together almost two decades at this point. 

Aziraphale had been a virgin when he’d met Gabriel. A very late in life virgin. It was a fact he was ashamed of, and he’d gotten all sorts of tied up over why he’d never been able to ‘seal the deal’ as it were. Perhaps it was his damnable shyness. Or perhaps it was more that he’d always felt that sex wasn’t something he deserved. Or, more truthfully, a thing he’d been told he was evil and wrong to want too many times to count.

His parents, devout Catholics, felt that sex before marriage was a grave sin, and that homosexuality was an even graver one. They’d picked up early on that their child was _different_ than other boys his age. He was softer, quieter, more shy. Completely uninterested in girls. They’d probably grown nervous at the more significant meaning that lay beneath these breadcrumbs of what they saw as dysfunctional behavior. _Functional,_ would have involved Aziraphale meeting a nice woman and settling down to one day have a few kids in a nice suburb somewhere. Getting his nose out of a book for five minutes stitched together and going to a school dance or a party. 

But Aziraphale never went to any school dances and certainly not to any parties. Even the low-key dances with hawk eyed chaperones and pre-approved music (mostly consisting of sunshiny dance hits from the mid to late 70s). He avoided other secondary school children like the plague. They were a different species from him, and they had different motives and spoke an entirely different language, full of casually crafted slang words and special hairstyles and they smoked fags and drank liquor and generally hung about places like the cinema and the dance halls, looking effortlessly nonchalant. Aziraphale meanwhile was hunting down first editions of Mark Twain novels and watching I Claudius with his mother. To say he was alienated and sheltered was a vast understatement. 

He’d kept his longing looks at those glossy, handsome boys from his school oh so cleverly hidden, choosing to snatch glances at a shirtless torso or a firm backside in athletic shorts and then to turn bright pink and look away in an instant, mortified by how he felt. He supposed that he was so terrified of other boys at first, the attractive ones anyway, because they represented the downfall of his very soul. Or so his parents had implied, none too vaguely throughout the entirety of his childhood and young adulthood. They weren’t bad people really, Frederick and Myra Fell. They had good hearts, underneath the strict, religious dogma. His mother, a freckled pale woman with strawberry blond hair, now streaked with silver, loved to read, and she was the one who’d first opened Aziraphale’s eyes to the joys of literature, and the enticing call of the mysteries held within the pages of books. She’d been a writer herself, and an illustrator, and had published a fantastically well received series of children’s books that focused on religious teachings. 

His father, Frederick, a history professor, had been stern but fair with Aziraphale. Instilling in him a love for nature, for animals, large and small, and of course, a love of history. Aziraphale had inherited his quiet, soft spoken nature and his white-blond curls. He loved his parents dearly, but the fact that they would never accept him as a decent or moral person if they knew about his innermost feelings was a constant strain on the relationship. Aziraphale felt he could never truly be honest with them, that they were likely only as kind and patient with him as they were because they didn’t know his dark secret. That he loved men. He knew that they suspected that he was gay, but they refused to bring it up, and neither did he. 

Later, once he’d made a few friends, like Deirdre and Anathema, who co-ran a witchy shop down the street from Aziraphale’s bookshop, and Anathema’s aunt Tracy (who’d really opened his eyes about some things!) he’d been able to shuffle off some of the deeply entrenched self hatred and religious dread that had been troweled onto him as a child. Despite his mother and father’s repeated talk about the unforgivable sin of homosexuality, and how it led those who participated in such acts, or even those who simply felt such feelings down a one way path to Hell, he’d found he had the strength to crawl out from under the dark pall of their disapproval. There were still echoes of shame associated with his desires, but once he’d moved out of his parent’s house, it became easier and easier to process those feelings and move past them. He’d learned that if you had true friends who understood you and whom you could trust, then it was alright to tell them about your feelings for other men. He further learned that they would not mock him or deride him for it. Though, they did do a fair bit of good natured teasing. 

It was through these friendships, that lasted through his twenties, that he found a measure of freedom from his strict upbringing. Anathema and he would visit markets together and go to movies, where they’d giggle over the leading men, hands stuffed into buckets of popcorn. Deirdre and Anathema and he would go out to the pub every so often to get pissed and laugh themselves silly over a series of increasingly esoteric private jokes. Aziraphale was able to let himself open up and relax a little. To remind himself that he wasn’t under the yoke of his parent’s control any longer. 

The one thing that his parents _were_ able to give him (aside from some very warped and hard to shake opinions on what constituted moral behavior) was money. They wanted him to have a chance to succeed in life and had promised him the purchase of a small house, were he to get married and settle down. They dug their heels in a bit when Aziraphale had asked instead that they go in on purchasing the vast, old brick house in Soho where he said he wanted to set up a bookshop. He mollified some of their concerns by assuring them that owning a bookshop would be the most chaste and godly venture possible. That the acquisition and sale of books was a highly respected profession. He’d already managed to make quite a name for himself as an amateur book dealer and finder of rare books, and this had resulted in him making a tidy income, along with his job as literature tutor to several students in the area. 

They’d relented after a few months of his gentle pestering. He hated to rely on them financially, but books and reading (and beginning to cautiously work on a few essays and poems of his own) were really all he’d ever wanted out of life (all he wanted that they’d approve of anyway), and so he reminded himself that as soon as he was able, he’d pay them back. 

And that’s exactly what he did. By the time he turned thirty, he’d been able to sell enough rare first editions and enough books in general to just break even and pay his parents back for the seed money they’d given him to start up the shop.

Never mind that he only made enough to pay property taxes and the mortgage, and to keep his refrigerator satisfyingly well stocked in the small apartment where he lived on the second floor. He didn’t go out much anyway, (with the exception of a night out at a new restaurant now and again, or drinks with the girls) rarely bought new clothes and never went on vacation. What use was spending thousands of pounds on a cruise or a trip to a far off land, when he had a thousand adventures at his fingertips on the shelves of his shop? And the shop was not a money making venture. More a labor of love. He had Anathema and Deirdre over to the shop quite often, to simply sit and chat, and still went out with them once a week for a few pints at the local pub. 

That’s how he’d met Gabriel. It had been a rainy night and chilly and he, with his two friends in tow, had sat themselves at a table in the corner of a local pub they frequented, away from the door. And so they’d had a good view when the two Americans; an impeccably coiffed blond woman wearing expensive looking heels and a posh rain slicker, and a tall, very handsome man in a nice, pale gray suit, walked in and ordered their drinks.

“Out of towners,” murmured Dierdre

“Obviously,” replied Anathema. “Americans,” she remarked after overhearing their accents at the bar. “Wonder where they’re from?” Anathema herself was a semi-recent transplant from across the pond. She was from northern California, a neo hippie of sorts, obsessed with tarot cards, chakras, auras, and a plethora of other similarly arkane, and (to Aziraphale) somewhat silly pursuits. She was always curious about other Americans when she ran into them on her travels and often marched up to them to ask where they were from and what they were doing in London. 

Tonight was no exception. When the couple had settled themselves with their glasses of wine, Anathema had sauntered over, appearing approachable, yet a little strange in her voluminous green and blue woolen frock. Her round glasses making her look a bit like an especially pretty owl, and with her crystals layered with bird feathers and a tiny dream catcher on thin silver chains around her neck and all, to say hello to them. A brief chat, too far away to be overheard ensued, and she returned to the table with a broad grin on her face.

“He’s an author, here with his publicist to talk to some people in the book industry here. Trying to get published overseas as he’s not having much luck in the US.”

“Doesn’t speak all that well of his skill as a writer,” said Aziraphale, having drunk just enough ale to get a bit cheeky. 

“Hey, don’t judge. I think he’s single.” This from Deirdre, leaning towards Anathema with a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. “That _is_ his publicist after all. It would be poor form for him to be shagging her right?” 

Each one of them were relentlessly trying to match the other two up with prospective dates. It was a game they played, half in jest and half out of wanting the best for their best mates. “Well,” Anathema replied, “we can find out for ourselves because he just invited us to join them for a drink.” 

“V’already got a drink,” Aziraphale slurred gently, halfway through his second pint at this point in the evening. Usually two pints was more than enough to give him a solid, comfortable buzz, the warm golden feel of which was currently just starting to vibrate pleasantly behind his eyes. But even as he said so, he rose from his chair, tempted by the opportunity to get closer to this tall, handsome American stranger. 

And _my_ how handsome he was. When Aziraphale and his two friends had settled at their hosts’ table, shaking hands and making introductions, Aziraphale sitting across from the tall, dark haired man, he could clearly see that Gabriel (introducing himself with a distractingly warm handshake, his broad palm and thick fingers gripping firmly at Aziraphale’s slightly sweaty hand) was indeed very attractive. His dark blue eyes (bordering on an unusual violet color) and the sleek, angular line of his jaw, and the carefully neglected five o’clock shadow that dusted his lower face just so, drew Aziraphale’s eyes eagerly back to his face every few seconds. He was quite ‘shaggable’ as Deirdre was fond of saying. 

The five of them chatted pleasantly, about Gabriel’s book deal he was shopping around to a few publishing houses here and in Spain and Italy. It was a book on finding inner peace in a modern world through the aid of guided meditation and healthy living. Such books usually ran the gamut from the truly profound to nothing more than pop psychology and half-empty feel-good platitudes. Aziraphale couldn’t tell which type of author Gabriel was, and quite honestly, he didn’t really care. _He wanted this man_. Wanted those thick, strong arms around him. Wanted that arrogant mouth on his throat and on places significantly lower down. He felt himself flush with heat even though the air inside the pub was cool. 

Gabriel’s publisher, Michael, a woman so put together that it was frankly a little unnerving, was friendly enough, if a little cool and aloof. Her glossy, flawless manicure and perfectly waxed brows and make up that looked subtle, but had probably taken an hour to apply, were a bit alien and intimidating to the three local friends across the table from her and Gabriel. Aziraphale could see it in the way Deirdre and Anathema kept tugging at and fixing their hair, and how they’d both adopted their own versions of “too cool” behavior to compensate, probably for feeling provincial in comparison to this corporate shark of a woman. 

The conversation progressed amiably. Gabriel was from a small town in the Catskills, north of New York City, and he now lived in the city itself, in Manhattan. So did Michael, though it was quickly ascertained through polite conversation (and some gently probing questions from Deirdre) that they did not live together. Gabriel made some offhanded comment about how great the gay scene was in the East Village and Aziraphale felt his temperature spike and his heartbeat suddenly kick into a higher gear with the thought that Gabriel fancied men. 

And yes, it turned out that he _did_ like men, as he was quick to extoll the virtues of several gay bars in Manhattan, and to ask bluntly if there were any gay bars and clubs in Soho that were worth visiting. 

“Oh!” stammered Anathema, so eager to speak that she came off almost urgent, like she was informing Gabriel that he was about to miss a flight, “Aziraphale can show you, can’t you Azi? He knows all the best spots in town.” 

This was a blatant lie. Aziraphale knew _none_ of the places in town where gay men congregated, let alone all the best ones. But he smiled bravely and nodded, flushing with what he knew from experience was a deep pink color that would be swiftly making its way across his face. His blushes were always epic, being that they had the backdrop of his pale cheeks and almost white hair as a blank canvas upon which to paint themselves. Trying to hide his embarrassment or his arousal was pointless once one of those blushes made an appearance. It was like a neon sign, splashed across his face, reading I Am Now Either Quite Embarrassed Or Quite Randy Thank You Very Much.

Dierdre, probably halfway pissed at this juncture, leaned a companionable shoulder into Aziraphale’s and chipped in, sealing his fate completely. “Oh yeah! Zira knows all about the club scene. I’m sure he’d be happy to show you around.” 

“I.. I wouldn’t presume to-” Aziraphale began, spluttering in half-terror at his friends’ blatant attempts to hook him up with this insanely attractive stranger. Gabriel was clearly out of his league and he almost resented them for not respecting the boundaries of what was clearly a looks based pecking order in which Aziraphale sat comfortably around the lower middle, and Gabriel clearly occupied a hilltop spot. 

“That would be great,” cut in Gabriel, his bright white, perfect American, Hollywood smile gleaming out from a face that was altogether too handsome. 

Aziraphale’s mouth had dropped open in surprise, having fully readied himself for a polite rejection in the form of a change in conversation topics, or possibly a joke. He hadn’t been prepared for Gabriel to accept the offer. “Oh, well, if you’d like,” Aziraphale stammered. “I mean, there _is_ a place down the way that I went to a few years back…” he let his words trail off as the three women locked eyes on either he or Gabriel (or flicked curious glances between them).

“Awesome!” Gabriel exclaimed, slapping the table with enough force to make his wine tremble in the glass in front of him. “Lets go check it out.” He turned briefly to Michael. “Hey Mike, you don’t mind right? I’ll make sure not to drink too much, and I’ll be there tomorrow, bright and early.” ‘Mike’ executed a casual wave of her hand that indicated that she was fine with him going. 

“I’ll just finish my pint and go back to the hotel. See you later.” She smiled knowingly at Gabriel in a way that made Aziraphale’s knees go a bit weak at what that smile might imply. 

Trying not to panic, he watched as Gabriel stood up from the table, towering over them ( _my_ he was _tall_ wasn’t he?) and went to go get his jacket from a hook by the door. Aziraphale scrambled up, grabbing his own antiquated, threadbare, cream colored suit jacket he’d been holding onto since he’d bought it at a vintage shop ten years prior. He used the fabric of the coat to surreptitiously dry his damp palms while he waited for Gabriel to return. His hands always sweated a bit when he was nervous, which, unfortunately, was quite often.

Gabriel sauntered back to the table and casually threw down a wad of bills. “I’m always really bad at the whole conversion thing, but this should cover our drinks and the tip, plus enough if you ladies want to stay and have a couple more,” he said. 

The confidence and surety in his voice was like something out of a movie. He was an American James Bond. Cocky, a touch arrogant. Aziraphale felt himself virtually vibrating with anticipation at the thought that this man might desire him back. He prayed silently that Gabriel wasn’t just looking for a mate to cruise with, that he wouldn’t be left alone at the end of the night, watching a taxi ferry Gabriel and some gorgeous conquest off into the night, leaving Aziraphale on the pavement, staring after them like an abandoned puppy. Dear lord, how humiliating that would be?

As it turned out, Gabriel _was_ interested. The moment they’d settled themselves at the bar, (a place called “Charlie’s” a few blocks away) with their drinks, he’d placed one of those warm, broad hands on Aziraphale’s knee. Aziraphale jumped slightly, then hastily took what he hoped was a casual sip of his martini to cover for his misstep. Gabriel’s hand squeezed the top of his knee gently, sending lightning bolts of white hot desire up Aziraphale’s leg and directly into his groin. He turned his sip into a gulp, knowing he was already a bit too drunk for a martini, but that’s what Gabriel had ordered, and he hadn’t wanted to look like a lightweight. 

“You’re really cute, you know that,” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale froze, martini glass halfway on a return trip to his lips. It was embarrassing how affected he was by a simple compliment. It’s as if Gabriel’s words turned off the part of Aziraphale’s brain that was used for articulate speech.

“Um. Thank you,” he spat out. “So are you.” Shakespeare had nothing on Aziraphale tonight apparently. He’d kicked himself for such an uninspired comeback while he finished lifting his glass to his lips and took a sip 

  
  


“ _Really_ cute,” Gabriel veritably purred as he slid his hand a little farther up Aziraphale’s leg, causing Aziraphale to swallow his gulp of vodka so loudly he swore it had been audible, even above the pumping techno music in the club. 

“You know,” continued Gabriel, “I only wanted you to show me around so I could get to be alone with you. Want to finish our drinks and come back to my hotel with me?”

Aziraphale nodded so swiftly that his head spun a little. He was drunk, and horny and about to go back to a total stranger’s hotel room. This was completely uncharted territory. Being a thirty year old, virginal bookshop owner with a background in strict catholicism, this was the first time a man had offered to take him home. And it was definitely the first time someone of Gabriel’s caliber of looks had done so. Aziraphale struggled with conflicting desires. His well worn guilt and shame over wanting sex with men, battling it out with his urgent desire to have Gabriel touch him all over his body.

“Great,” Gabriel’s smile was slick and victorious and made something tingling clutch deep inside Aziraphale’s belly at the sight of it. “Can I have a little kiss?” Gabriel asked, and Aziraphale again nodded, breath stuck in his throat, unable to force out anything close to a coherent verbal response. Gabriel had slid off of his bar stool and putting his drink down in a fluid motion, he’d leaned forward and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. This soon became a wet, slippery, intensely affecting kiss, as Gabriel hungrily licked his tongue into Azirpahale’s mouth while taking Aziraphale’s drink out of his hands and putting it on the bar next to his own. 

“You wanna get out of here?” Gabriel suggested, his breath, smelling of vermouth, ghosting against Aziraphale’s open, panting mouth. 

“Yes. Yes, let's.” He followed Gabriel out to hail a taxi in a daze, then lost himself in a very vigorous snog session in the back seat on the way to the hotel. The taxi driver kept giving them dirty looks, but knew enough to keep his mouth shut, as Gabriel’s hotel was across town and the fare would be a good one. Upon arrival, they somehow untangled themselves enough to get out of the taxi and for Gabriel to pay the cabbie, and then made it to the elevator before Gabriel roughly pushed Aziraphale up against the wall and more desperate kissing ensued. 

Azirpahale’s head was spinning with ale and vodka and arousal and the rest of the night was a highly enjoyable blur of silky smooth skin against his own, and the hot wetness of Gabriel’s mouth on all those places Aziraphale had wanted it. Gabriel had sucked him off with almost frightening precision, making Aziraphale arch and explode in a climax that rushed up and consumed him with surprising speed and force. Then, when Aziraphale had finally regained something close to normal respiration and heart rate, Gabriel had talked him through just the right ways to return the favor. And though Aziraphale had never had a cock in his mouth before, he’d certainly dreamed about it for long enough. It was awkward and a little uncomfortable, his jaw ached, and he was a little dismayed by all the drooling he was doing. Yet it was still so arousing that he found himself with another aching erection at the end of it. The surprising bitter taste of Gabriel’s semen coating his tongue and echoing sourly in the back of his throat felt like a triumph over a lifetime of virginity. 

He should have felt more shame over what he’d done. Over finally falling prey to the temptations his parents had warned him of for the entirety of his young life. But surprisingly, what he mostly felt was sexual satisfaction and a desire to do it again as soon as possible. He felt twinges of discomfort that he would have to hide this from his mother and father, but that was an issue for the future.

A surprisingly short time later, Gabriel had stroked himself to another erection while kissing Aziraphale, and they’d gotten each other off, with more very exacting instructions from Gabriel on how Aziraphale could use his hands to optimal effect. Aziraphale honestly appreciated the input. He felt hopelessly out of his depth, reeling with alcohol consumption and the pure, heady joy of losing his virginity to one of the sexiest men he’d ever laid eyes on. He thought perhaps he might be dreaming. 

The dream predictably ended the next morning. Gabriel had brusquely woken Aziraphale up, apologizing warmly but efficiently and urging him to get dressed and depart Gabriel’s room as Gabriel had a meeting with a potential publisher in just half an hour. Aziraphale had complied, feeling almost relieved with the clear signs that this had been a one time thing. That was the right way for it to turn out wasn’t it? Plump, unfashionable, virgin gay man is deflowered by glamorous, insanely attractive American tourist and never hears from him again. Aziraphale had been prepared for the rejection since he’d first started casting shy glances at his classmates as a teenager. He wasn’t even really heartened much when Gabriel had asked for his number as they said goodbye. Men often asked for telephone numbers and then didn’t call. It was a well known practice wasn’t it? 

What he _hadn’t_ been prepared for was for Gabriel to call him that very same day. At half past four in the afternoon, he’d been intently discussing the previous night’s details with Anathema over a coffee at the back of the shop. Aziraphale had closed early in order to give Anathema and her rather probing questions his full attention for the rest of the afternoon. She’d been lit up with vicarious excitement for him when she’d heard how his evening had progressed, and peppered him with endless questions about it that made Azirapahle blush with the memory, still fresh in his mind. 

The ringing telephone had made them both jump a little. Aziraphale, assuming it was one of his book dealer contacts, or one in a long string of irritated potential customers asking about the shop’s hours, picked up swiftly.

“A.Z. Fell and Company. How may I be of assistance?” he rattled off his usual greeting, only to have his heart start pounding when he heard the warm, sexy, American accented voice on the other end. 

“Hey Aziraphale. It’s Gabriel. Are you.. Um… busy tonight?”

“G-Gabriel,” Aziraphale stammered, sounding not at all smooth or confident in any possible way. “Oh, well, no, not particularly. Why do you ask?” He had to make the other man say it. Wouldn’t assume that he wanted a second date. 

“Wanna get some dinner?” had come the casual, friendly response. The man had sounded for all the world as if he knew that Aziraphale’s answer would be yes. Aziraphale had never dreamed of possessing that sort of confident surety.

“Alright,” Aziraphale agreed, insides combusting silently while he held the phone to the hot surface of his ear. Then they awkwardly negotiated which of the local restaurants to go to (something Aziraphale _did_ know quite a bit about), and when to meet. Aziraphale rang off with his heart in his throat and a giant grin plastered across his face. 

“Oh my god! Was that _him_?” Anathema, hands clenched under her chin as if in prayer, was bouncing gently up and down in her seat with excitement. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied softly, feeling dazed. “He wants to go to dinner with me.”

Anathema shrieked excitedly and leapt up to hug him. “He likes you Zira! He wants more of that white chocolate sweetness!” She’d developed the somewhat irritating, irreverent and also just a little bit hilarious habit of referring to him simply as ‘white chocolate’. A nickname derived from the appearance of his platinum blond hair and pale skin. 

“Well, he certainly seems to like what I can _do_ for him,” Aziraphale responded with a self effacing shrug. 

“Nonsense. He’s madly in love with you.” She paused for a moment, then her eyes widened and she clutched at her chest, gasping with a sharp intake of breath.

“What? What is it?” He was suddenly alert, afraid she’d choked on her coffee. Was she having a heretofore unknown allergic reaction to something?

“As you know, white chocolate, I can see into the fyuuuuuutuuuurreee,” she made her voice tremulous and wavering, like an overly dramatic stage magician. “I am in fact, as I’m sure you’re aware... a _witch_!” She exclaimed, hands flying outwards, palms open, fluttering her fingers as if casting a spell that very moment. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“I can see into the fyuuuuutuuurreee!” she said again, blinking rapidly, mouth propped open in a perpetual state of fake shocked awe, eyes squinting as she pretended to gaze into the mists of time. Aziraphale indulged her, because he always found himself helplessly charmed by her ridiculousness. Also, he was quite amenable to any excuse to continue talking about Gabriel. 

“I see a wedding!” she gasped, and Aziraphale’s eye roll grew more pronounced, though his heart leapt a little at the silly notion. That this dashing stranger who’d just taken his virginity in what was so laughably a two night stand at most, would one day be his husband. “A wedding I say!” She repeated for emphasis, squinting harder as she looked into the middle distance. “I see you, dressed in cream colored trousers and a beige jacket from 1941 and a tartan bow tie, standing at the ahhhhllllltttterrrrrr.”

“Well you don’t have to be a prognosticator to see that,” Aziraphale mumbled, “you need only open your eyes Anathema dear.”

“Shhh-shh-shh, do not interrupt me while I’m looking into the fyyuuuutuurrrre!”

Aziraphale dutifully shut his mouth.

“I see Gideon-”

“Gabriel,” corrected Aziraphale quietly.

“ _Gabriel!_ Yes… I see _Gabriel_ in a tuxedo, and the two of you are standing before a lesbian minister who was recently ordained onliiiiiinnnnneeee.”

This made Aziraphale giggle despite himself, as that was likely the situation under which he’d marry, if ever he did. 

“You are saying the words eeeyyyyeeee dooooooo!” She proclaimed, reaching up to the ceiling with quite a bit of dramatic flare. “And then….” she paused briefly. “You go home and shag each other silllllyyyyy!”

“Stop it now,” Aziraphale chided. “You’re being quite ridiculous. He just wants to have dinner. He lives in another country for heaven’s sake. He’s just looking for a bit of fun while he’s in town.”

“I don’t know…” Anathema had reclaimed her coffee mug and brought it to her lips to take a sip, looking at him significantly over its chipped, blue rim. 

“Well my dear, I certainly _do_ know. So please just let me live in this moment, enjoying the idea that I’ll get some more sex with him before he disappears. Which will likely be very early tomorrow morning if not very late tonight.”

Anathema shrugged and changed the subject to some shop down the block from her that she suspected was a new competitor based on the fact that they sold the same kinds of incense. 

And so they’d gone to dinner that night, and despite Gabriel having a penchant for ordering for Aziraphale without asking him if he’d like the choices being made (he ended up liking them very much, and so immediately forgave Gabriel for his presumptuous behavior), the evening went surprisingly well. Gabriel listened while Aziraphale told him about his bookshop, his friends, his homophobic, religious upbringing.

There was an embarrassing moment during which Gabriel cleverly deduced that Aziraphale was a virgin, and that he’d divested Aziraphale of his virginity only just last night. But Gabriel seemed pleased by this fact rather than alarmed or put off. 

To Aziraphale’s delight and surprise, Gabriel called and asked him out the next evening, and the next. And when he left for the states a week later, he asked if it would be alright to come back to see Aziraphale again, once he could apply for another visitor visa. Aziraphale had agreed immediately, feeling equal amounts of joy and trepidation at Gabriel’s continued interest. It was a lot, to go from romantic and sexual obscurity to being ardently pursued by the type of man he’d only ever seen in the cinema. He was already utterly besotted with Gabriel, and the man could have asked him to do virtually anything and he’d happily have agreed. 

Two years, and several temporary visa visits later, Gabriel had proposed, and Aziraphale had gladly accepted. He’d told his parents about his relationship with Gabriel and the fact that they would marry, and it had predictably gone over horribly. His mother had sobbed, his father had yelled, calling him a sinner and a fallen one and saying he was sick. The worst part about it was that they so clearly blamed themselves for their son’s sinful ways. His mother had held his face in her hands, eyes filled with anguish and tears and asked ‘What did I do wrong? How could you have ended up this way?’. They’d told him he was no longer their son and not to speak to them again. It was torture, and Aziraphale had spent a few nights sobbing in Gabriel’s arms, wondering silently if he could take it all back If he could tell them he’d been saved and could promise to stop seeing Gabriel if only they’d call him their son again. But he knew it was pointless. He knew this was who he was now, and unfortunately, being who he truly felt he was inside, meant that he had to give up having a relationship with his parents.

After a small but lovely wedding with Aziraphale’s friends and the one or two family members that would actually attend, they flew to the US to have a much larger, grander and more expensive ceremony with all of Gabriel’s friends, author friends, publisher and editor friends, ex boyfriends and a smattering of family that agreed to attend. It was a lavish affair and Aziraphale had felt like a pigeon pretending to be a swan the entire time. But it had _happened_. Anathema’s prophecy had come true after all. He had a ring on his finger, and, when gay marriage actually became legal in 2011 in New York state, they’d officially married in a small, private ceremony. Gabriel hadn’t wanted to go to the expense of a big thing, had only wanted to make it legal, and at that point, they’d been together for over a decade, so it felt right.

Aziraphale had ended up handing over the operation of the bookshop to his parents. His younger brother Sandalphon (Sandy for short, as his parents had an unfortunate penchant for long, biblical names) took over the day to day operations, and he served as a go-between for Aziraphale and his mother and father. Though they no longer spoke to him, he knew they couldn’t bear to lose out on an investment, and so they’d agreed to help keep the bookshop in the family. 

Sandalphone was required to have weekly telephone and skype calls with Aziraphale to receive instructions on which books were _not_ to be sold for any amount of money, and to help his brother figure out the ins and outs of the bookselling trade. Sandy hadn’t really made much of a start in life either. He’d become a bit of a recluse, never marrying and having no children, though this was probably due to his sexual repression and social anxiety rather than the internalized homophobia that terrorized Aziraphale, being that he was straight. It turns out, when you raise children to believe that the world is rife with sin and that their sexual urges are sent to them by the devil, they can end up living somewhat solitary lives. 

Sandy was only too grateful to have something important to do. And as a positive byproduct, it allowed Aziraphale to get to know his introverted brother a bit better through their discussions. 

And this was how he’d found himself, two decades after meeting Gabriel that one night in a pub, drying sweaty palms on a scrap of paper towel with little angel wings and little halos on it, in his large, newly renovated kitchen that he never used, in Athena New York, USA. 

He was well fed, financially supported, loved, and cared for. Even if Gabriel had grown more distant and more involved in his work, his weekend workshops and his television appearances, he was still a good husband. At least that’s what Aziraphale told himself on the long, lonely nights when Gabriel was spending the weekend in the city for an appearance on the Daily Show or Good Morning America. It’s what he told himself when he reached for Gabriel in the middle of the night, only to be brushed off and have his husband roll away and turn his back. Aziraphale had grown quite used to masturbating in the shower and wanking on the sly, and kept a few dirty magazines in the bottom shelf of his bedside table for just such occasions. 

It wasn’t that Gabriel never had sex with him anymore. It was that it had grown far less frequent, and had developed a bit of a perfunctory feel. Aziraphale longed for the early days, when they’d spend the entire day in bed, pulling pleasure from each other and cuddling and talking. It had been really good for quite a while. But, as Gabriel’s fame had increased, his attentiveness to his marriage had lessened. He’d begun spending more time on business trips, some of which made Aziraphale wonder if he’d gotten up to more than just business when he was away from home. 

He never complained though. How could he? He owed Gabriel so much. And Gabriel owed him too. He knew this without consciously confronting it too closely. Gabriel needed to show the world that he had a loving, caring husband. Otherwise, his advice would ring hollow. How could a self professed relationship guru and spiritual visionary have a strained marriage? Or get a divorce? And especially with the hard won rights of gay people to marry, a prominant gay celebrity divorcing wouldn’t look good on that front either. 

So Aziraphale knew that Gabriel needed him to be sweet and adorable, and to hold his hand in pictures for the endless photo ops. He’d even gone on a few talk shows with Gabriel, blushing intensely with stage fright and uttering a few responses to the host’s glib questions that he knew from experience would probably charm the audience. 

_And what do you do while your husband is out there, fixing marriages?_

_Oh, I collect and refurbish first editions of classical literature. We have a massive library at the house._

_Classic literature eh? How interesting! Is that why you look just like you've stepped out of a Dickens novel?_

_*gently mocking laughter from the audience*_

_Not exactly. This particular type of waistcoat wasn’t invented until 1912, so Dickensian characters would never have worn something so anachronistic._

This last part was said with a warm grin and the audience (at least the bookish, more high brow members of the audience) would dutifully applaud and titter with delighted laughter at how very quaint Aziraphale was. Americans loved his posh sounding accent and his delicate mannerisms. He embodied the fussy, proper, gentlemanly stereotype of the typical Englishman that they all swooned over while watching period piece romances or Fawlty Towers on BBC America.

Aziraphale was tired of being quaint though. Tired of being cute and sweet and charming. He wanted to do something rash and exciting. He wanted to make his own way in the world without the constant, ever present safety net of Gabriel’s financial security and Gabriel’s fame always following him around like a suffocating shadow. 

This was probably why he’d begun thinking a bit too much about their relatively new chauffeur and gardener, Anthony J. Crowley. 

Or rather, just _Crowley_. That’s what the man had said when he’d come for an in person interview with Gabriel and Aziraphale. “Just Crowley. I haven’t gone by Anthony since primary school.” He was British, and told them that he’d come to the US to go to school for horticulture some ten years ago now, and had stayed on a work-visa so he could continue pursuing a career in that field. His last job had ended recently, and he needed a new one, and a place to stay, so this was a great opportunity for him.

Aziraphale had sat next to Gabriel, across a small kitchen table from Crowley during the interview and had struggled valiantly not to stare. He’d never seen anyone quite like Crowley, outside of teen heartthrob magazines and issues of Rolling Stone anyway. He looked like a rock star, with his tight black trousers and black silk shirt and red necktie, his messy shock of dark red hair that looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but also hinted at what he might have been doing _in it_. He’d removed his sunglasses for the interview, and the sight of the man’s large, pale amber eyes had forced Aziraphale to look down at his teacup in order to hide the blatant expression of awe and lust he was sure was parading itself across his open, far-too-honest face. 

Crowley had smoothly answered their questions and had seemed like the perfect candidate. They’d gone through a few interviews with less qualified, socially unpleasant applicants. No one had seemed quite right until Crowley came along. His having actually gone to school for a degree in horticulture and having been a professional driver at one point in his past was extremely promising. They’d wanted to hire two different people as gardener and driver, but if they could kill two birds with one stone, hiring Crowley would be a cheaper bet.

It had seemed like a done deal, but Aziraphale belatedly realized that it wasn’t only Crowley’s skill and charm that would win him the position. It was the fact that he was _straight_. 

Gabriel, not being blind, and knowing his husband well, hadn’t failed to pick up on Aziraphale’s awkward stammering and blushing beside him. Aziraphale had watched while Gabriel’s mouth had grown thin and his features had arranged themselves into the now familiar expression of possessive jealousy that Aziraphale knew well. He’d hear about Crowley later for sure, when Gabriel made passive aggressive comments about Aziraphale ‘enjoying the view’, or some equally vague accusation. 

Fueled by jealousy, Gabriel had done a little polite probing and had asked if Crowley would need to bring a wife or any children with him to live in the guest quarters, and Crowley had shaken his head in response, saying that he’d never married and didn’t want children. That hadn’t quite gotten the response Gabriel wanted, so he’d asked if Crowley was currently single, under the guise of bringing up their guidelines for sleepover guests (allowed, if kept discreet and respectful). 

Crowley had said he was single, and laughing gently, had said that ironically, his not wanting children was the reason his last girlfriend had left. 

_Girlfriend_

There it was. Confirmation that Crowley was straight, and therefore not of any real threat to Gabriel’s marriage or his position of Most Attractive Gay Man in New York State. Gabriel wanted (and would continue to get) adoration from different groups than Crowley did, and their new driver could be trusted to keep his hands to himself where Aziraphale was concerned (much to Aziraphale’s disappointment). 

Not that Aziraphale would ever seriously contemplate cheating on Gabriel, and Gabriel knew it. Knew his husband was devoted and faithful. Aziraphale could be trusted not to fool around outside the marriage, could be trusted not to bring the legions of magazine reporters and columnists flocking to their door with rumors of inappropriate behavior. And he’d been raised that way too, to believe that marriage was a sacred bond. Even if his own parents refused to acknowledge _his_ marriage, they’d made sure to raise him to be a man of his word. A not so small part of him also wanted to show them that he could stay married for life, just as long as any straight couple who’d made a good go of it.

Regardless, Crowley liked women, and so he could be as dashing and sexy around the house as he wanted, but he wouldn’t think of laying a hand on Aziraphale, and so, Gabriel could go on his business trips with an easy mind. 

Aziraphale wasn’t naive enough to think that his husband’s possessiveness had anything to do with Gabriel being ardently in love with him. Two decades into a marriage that still worked, but mostly out of convenience, and Aziraphale knew that Gabriel had grown tired of him. He knew that Gabriel’s affection and attraction had waned considerably, but he also knew that Gabriel liked the things he considered his to stay his. _His_ house. _His_ wealth. _His_ reputation. _His_ husband. If Crowley had been gay, well, that would have been too much of a wild card to invite into Gabriel’s personal kingdom. 

Aziraphale had tried to smother the unexpected stab of disappointment at hearing that Crowley was straight. It didn’t matter anyway. The man was his employee, and Aziraphale was married. And for some reason, it usually killed Aziraphale’s fantasies when the object of his desire was incapable of desiring him back. In real life anyway. He’d certainly fancied his fair share of straight celebrities. But when it came to real, flesh and blood people in his social circles, he kept his fantasies confined to other gay men. His self esteem hadn’t ever had the chance to build itself up to the point where crushing on his straight chauffeur and horticulturist would end in anything other than depression. 

Crowley had moved in, and in less than 9 months, he’d proven his skills by getting the greenhouse back to its former glory. Under his tender care, and with the help of bags and bags of fertilizer, truck loads of fresh plants and trays of new seedlings, a new irrigation system and specialized heat lamps, the plants and flowers were bursting with life, and the greenhouse was gleaming with emerald fecundity. 

Gabriel was pleased, for his greenhouse (another thing he could possess that added value to his reputation) was the talk of the town. Already, several home and garden magazines had asked him for photoshoots and interviews. He allowed the photoshoots, for those would gain him notoriety, but turned down the interviews, saying only that they had a “talented staff” that had breathed new life into the old glass structure that housed what had once been a sorry group of half dead weeds. Now, the greenhouse got regular mentions in a wide array of magazine articles and talk show interviews. 

Gabriel didn’t want anyone talking to Crowley, interviewing Crowley, for that would take attention away from himself. And the man was simply too attractive for Gabriel to allow him to step into the public eye in connection to Gabriel. He’d take too much attention away from where Gabriel wanted it. Squarely on his own accomplishments and endeavors.

Aziraphale understood and respected all that. He’d known Gabriel was arrogant and vain when he’d met him. It had been a big part of his sex appeal. That he was so effortlessly confident. That he knew what he wanted and went out and got it. It was the reason Aziraphale now lived in a veritable mansion of a house, with all the resources he needed to acquire and sell and refurbish old books, and to do as he pleased with the rest of his free time. 

It was a side of Gabriel that only Aziraphale saw, for Gabriel had a very carefully constructed image to uphold. One where he displayed a serene calmness and strength from his deep connection with inner peace. The outside world didn’t see Gabriel getting snappish when one of his tailored suits got wrinkled at the dry cleaners, or how Gabriel nagged at Aziraphale to put down the pastries and made comments about his weight (which Aziraphale tolerated most of the time because it was for his own good after all). The rest of the world didn’t hear Gabriel when he confided in his husband late at night, in the privacy of their bedroom, that he was afraid of obscurity. That he’d been a scrawny teenager and how he’d gotten mediocre grades in college. How he’d struggled for years to get published, until one of his books (and then several follow up sequels,) had miraculously taken off. Aziraphale knew this side of Gabriel, and it made him feel special. Made him feel like he was the only person in the world who knew the real man under the public persona of an enlightened relationship guru. 

And, at the bottom of it all, Aziraphale supposed he was glad that Crowley was straight. Due to the fact that Crowley regularly drove Aziraphale places, (to book club meetings and art gallery openings or to fetch Gabriel from the airport or drive him to the city for weekends away). As a result, they’d spent a lot of time in each other’s company, even if it was only with Aziraphale in the back seat while Crowley drove. The man was insanely attractive, with his angular face and sharp cheekbones, his charming little underbite and his full lower lip and those long, lanky legs encased in tight dark trousers or even tighter jeans. Oh and his _hair_. Over the course of his employment, he’d grown it out from the messy bedhead look he’d started with, to auburn waves just past his chin that he sometimes tied half up, and Aziraphale’s fingers itched with the urge to touch it. 

Aziraphale was dismayed to realize that his usually rational mind, which prevented him from fancying straight men, had failed spectacularly to keep him from fantasizing about Crowley. He found his breath catching slightly and his mind filling with impure thoughts whenever he looked at the man for heaven's sake. 

The fact that Crowley liked women instead of men was a blessing. A godsend really. It had been far too long since Aziraphale had enjoyed a regular sex life, and as a result, having a _gay_ man this attractive around, with his sharp, black chauffeur jacket accenting his angular shoulders and narrow waist… well, it would have been torture. Torture to give Aziraphale the hope that one day, Crowley might hit him up for sex. Because Crowley was horny, or lonely out there in the guest house, out here in a small town in the Catskills. Yes, Aziraphale would still have to turn him down, even if such a miraculous event were to occur, but a man could dream couldn’t he?

In a twist of cruel irony, Aziraphale found that lusting after a straight man didn’t even kill _that_ sort of fantasy for him. It merely had him making a few mental adjustments so that the fantasy felt realistic enough for him to indulge in it. 

Crowley, getting lonely and bored and sauntering over to Aziraphale one day when Gabriel was out of town, to ask if he’d like to come to his apartment for a drink. How Crowley would complain that he hadn’t gotten laid in a really long time, and how he wished there was some way to get some relief, and how he’d grown tired of wanking. And then Aziraphale would suggest that a blow job from another man was just the same as one from a woman… that Crowley would only have to close his eyes and imagine someone else, and then Crowley would agree to it… and then… Well. Aziraphale had to stop himself at that point. Or _mostly_ he stopped himself. Some evenings he didn’t, and ended up stroking himself to thoughts of getting down on his knees to suck Crowley’s cock. Thoughts of reverently undoing the button at the top of those tight trousers and peeling them down. Thoughts of placing gentle kisses to Crowley’s lower belly before heading southward to slip his cock into Aziraphale’s greedy mouth. 

And so, what he’d hoped to avoid by Crowley being straight hadn’t worked in the slightest. He ended up tortured anyway. Luckily though, Crowley wasn’t much of a talker. They’d developed a pleasant, employee/employer acquaintanceship over the past year, but the man wasn’t a chatterbox. So Aziraphale could tell himself that he was probably dumb as a box of rocks and that he likely spent his off evenings chasing women at local bars, much like most other extremely attractive straight men he’d known in his lifetime. Their looks gained them attention from a plethora of women, and so they hadn’t bothered to develop their personalities as a result. This was probably the case with Crowley. For all he knew, Crowley was into the local football teams and talked about cars and enjoyed action films. That was the extent of the very narrow, very uninformed opinions Aziraphale held about straight men. 

Regardless, Aziraphale learned to view Crowley as a helpful employee, as a talented horticulturist and an agreeable acquaintance, someone he could trust to not bother him with idle chatter on long drives. And someone he could wank to when he felt particularly randy and lonely when Gabriel was away. That wasn’t so bad was it? In fact, it was a tradition for bored, rich housewives that was so deeply entrenched in American culture as to have become an oft used trope. Lonely Housewife Lusts After Sexy Chauffeur (or sexy pool boy, depending on the narrative, though he and Gabriel’s “pool boy” was a short, round Portuguese man in his sixties named Octavio), and Aziraphale knew if he was anything, he was a bored, lonely housewife.

It was fine. Crowley probably hadn’t even noticed that his presence caused Aziraphale physical discomfort in the form of flushed cheeks and distracting fantasies. The man was a blank page. He chose to keep to himself, rarely spoke to Gabriel and only spoke sparingly to Aziraphale. It helped that Crowley didn’t display a stellar personality to go with his incredible looks. Aziraphale would probably have been forced to avoid him if that were the case. He could stay as a tempting but unattainable distraction. Something for Aziraphale to look forward to every day, just like he looked forward to home baked croissants from his trips into Athena proper to that lovely little bakery on the corner of Cornelius and Whitefarer streets. Or how he looked forward to the smell of the pages of an old book, cracked open and spread out under his reverent fingertips like the body of a lover. He wanted to crack Crowley open and spread him out too, but he could be satisfied with keeping those desires to himself indefinitely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of sex work, mentions of HIV/AIDs, drug addiction and OC death. No explicit details

Anthony Crowley had grown up in a poor suburb of London. His mother, a long suffering saint of a woman had passed away from breast cancer that had tragically gone undetected for too long when Crowley was 10. His father, a raving alcoholic with a penchant for yelling at his two children and often taking the back of his hand to Crowley (because Beez was a girl and it was wrong to hit girls). He still yelled at Beez (Beelzebub back then), calling them useless and stupid, and treated Crowley to the same, only in Crowley’s case, with a side order of backhanded slaps and shoves to drive his point home. 

Both Beez and Crowley had left home as soon as humanly possible. They’d tried to stick together, but Crowley ended up falling in with a crowd Beez didn’t like, and Beez ended up shacking up with a girlfriend who refused to allow Crowley to crash on her couch. He spent a few years helping Beez out, bailing them out, picking them up from the police station when they were picked up for misdemeanors, or from disreputable houses where pumping music and zombie eyed teenagers hung around on the front stoop. The last time Crowley had seen Beez, they were neck deep in heroine addiction, and he hadn’t the stomach to wade through that sort of dysfunction. He had himself to look out for after all. They’d reconnected briefly, by phone, a couple of years ago, after Crowley moved to the US, and he’d found out that they 1, didn’t call themselves a girl any longer, wanted to be called ‘they’ and ‘them’, and that 2, they’d be headed to rehab soon to finally kick the heroin habit that had virtually consumed their lives for years. They’d also kicked their junkie girlfriend to the curb, much to their older brother’s relief. Outside of that one phone call, they hadn’t spoken for a while. 

Crowley spent most of his late teens and early twenties learning to live on the streets. His mates, Hastur, Ligur and Dagon, all kids from abusive homes, broken homes, homes where drug addiction and sexual abuse ran rampant, found solace in hanging about with each other, squatting in abandonded buildings, spending nights under bridges and in a variety of homeless shelters. They were alright lads, a bit rough around the edges, but life on the streets required a bit of roughness. If you didn’t have thick skin, the poorer, more crime ridden parts of London would eat you alive. Crowley and Hastur found jobs at a local restaurant and hot spot called The Inferno as busboys. Dagon started dealing drugs, saying he needed a quick way to make money for his sex change surgeries and his hormones, but Crowley and Hastur knew that above and beyond that, he’d gotten hooked. 

It was the early to mid 90s and being open about being bisexual wasn’t common, nor was it particularly well received. Crowley’s gay friends told him he couldn’t be gay if he slept with women, his straight friends told him he was pretending to like girls to avoid having to say he was gay. Anyone who saw him with a man or a woman automatically assumed he was one or the other orientation, but not both. A vanishingly small number of people even considered that bisexuality was an option. Crowley didn’t waste time trying to explain that he liked men and women equally when it came to sex and relationships. He just dealt with different factions of his friends making assumptions whenever he’d start dating someone new. 

First there’d been Cathleen. A tough girl in a leather jacket with a shaved head and really pretty eyes who Crowley had dated for several months, despite the fact that she’d yell at him and sometimes hit him when she got drunk, which was relatively often. His father had treated him this way, and so it felt like home, having someone derride him verbally and hit him when they were angry or displeased. It was the familiar size and shape of the only love he’d ever known. He’d finally left her when she’d tried to stab him with a screwdriver after one too many pulls on a shared bottle of whiskey and a swiftly escalating argument over whether he wanted to shag her best friend. 

Next was Oliver, who was far more even tempered and rational than Cathleen. Oliver was an older bloke, in his late thirties, with a car and his own flat, and Crowley had thought himself uniquely blessed to sleep next to him in a real bed, to watch tv together in the evenings. Eventually though, when Oliver lost his job, he’d suggested that maybe Crowley could turn some tricks to help pay the rent. They’d had a massive row and Oliver had kicked him out, and then Crowley was back on the streets. 

He’d ended up homeless again, and after all that, he’d ended up turning tricks anyway in order to have the money to eat, as respectable jobs were thin on the ground. It wasn’t all that bad. At least it was _his_ decision, and not a suggestion from someone who was supposed to love and cherish him. He’d only accept Johns he didn’t find utterly repulsive, and many of them wanted to suck him off, rather than the other way around. He was careful to always use condoms, even for oral, to protect himself from STDs, the worst and most devastating of which being the AIDS virus, it's dark fingers having already snatched away the lives of a few of his friends and friends of friends who also lived on the street. Hustling, as dangerous as it was, was just a way to make ends meet, like any other, even if it left Crowley feeling lonely and depressed when it was over.

It was through hooking that he met Will. William Bradley had picked Crowley up on a freezing December night, and instead of asking him for sex, he’d bought Crowley a hot meal and offered him a night on his couch. One night had morphed into a week, then two, then comfortably into a longer term situation. Will, was in his early fifties, a handsome man who unfortunately suffered from severe erectile dysfunction that didn’t allow him to have normal intercourse. So after Crowley had been there for a two days and had asked Will if he’d like to fuck or be fucked by him, (to repay him for his kindness) Will had shyly asked if Crowley would masturbate for him instead. 

No one had ever asked this of Crowley before, but he obligingly stroked himself for Will. It didn’t involve contact and was easy enough to accomplish. Initially, the older man had simply sat in a chair nearby, devouring Crowley with his eyes. Then, as Crowley grew more accustomed to the act, he welcomed Will to sit next to him on the sofa where he usually did his thing. It was as Will got closer, still refraining from touching Crowley that he confessed to being HIV positive. It was the reason he wouldn’t engage sexually with Crowley. Eventually though, once he’d gained Crowley’s trust, and with Crowley’s enthusiastic permission, Will would touch Crowley’s straining thighs or run fingers through his hair and compliment him, calling him _beautiful,_ or _my precious darling,_ or _my good good boy_ while he got himself off. 

It was a sharp departure for Crowley, at twenty five years of age to be admired, complemented, cared for, for perhaps the first time in his life, but not treated like a possession, and not pressured for sex. Initially, he’d been a little put off by it, stroking himself for what he at first saw as some kinky old man had been a little uncomfortable, but he’d managed it because he was grateful to Will for his help, and because Will had asked him with such hesitation and obvious fear of rejection, had added the caveat that Crowley continuing to stay there would not hinge on him touching himself for Will. Crowley had felt confident that if he’d said no, he’d be left in peace. And, if he were honest, a part of him got really turned on at the thought of performing for someone who found him beautiful. His beauty had mostly gotten him into trouble before now. It had made his partners jealous and insecure, had rivals going after him with sharp words and sharper fists. 

Eventually though, after living there for several weeks, getting to know Will’s wry sense of humor, his kindness and his clever wit, and recognizing that his benefactor and new friend was actually quite handsome, despite his lined face and the silver in his hair (or perhaps because of those things), Crowley had grown to love touching himself for Will. The masturbation sessions became charged with the electricity of real desire, and Crowley would stare deeply into Will’s eyes while he worked himself towards some of the most intense orgasms of his life. Will would gently kiss Crowley’s neck or his cheek, but frustratingly refused to kiss him on the mouth, even when Crowley begged. He would stroke his thighs and his stomach, or sometimes place his hand over Crowley’s to help him along a little. But he refused to share fluids with Crowley in any way.

Crowley was deeply touched by this care Will took with him, and eventually deeply saddened by the knowledge that his benefactor and his new love was positive. It meant that Will’s life could end sooner than later, and not in an easy way. 

Still, Crowley found ways to get closer. He would put on a condom so that Will could suck him off. Will refused to let Crowley fuck him, and refused to fuck Crowley, even with a condom on, but Crowley insisted that he purchase some toys so that Will could fuck Crowley with a dildo while he lay face down across Will’s lap. He spoiled Crowley this way. Worshiped him, stroked the skin of his back and buttocks, whispering heated compliments and praise as he worked Crowley with an assortment of toys. It introduced Crowley to a new form of intimacy, one built on caring and love. Will made him feel so incredibly loved. Protected. Cherished. It also taught him that sex could be a lot more than just sticking one’s cock somewhere warm and wet. That it involved teasing, playfulness, anticipation and tension. 

  
  


On days when Crowley wasn’t in the mood for sex, Will would quickly back off and go read a book, or they’d curl up on the couch with a black and white movie. They spent many hours talking and laughing with Crowley curled up with his head in Will’s lap, Will’s gentle fingers stroking through Crowley’s hair.

Crowley, despite how he tended to guard his heart against new emotional entanglements, couldn’t help but fall in love with his generous host. Will had felt like a guardian angel, swooping in to rescue Crowley from a dim, dirty life of drinking too much, sleeping rough and selling his body for money, from waking up with a splitting headache and a feeling of worthlessness. 

It was Will who’d turned Crowley on to plants. He’d had several in his large, three bedroom flat and had taught Crowley how to care for them during the times Will was out of town.

Crowley had instantly felt a quiet peacefulness come over him when he was watering and caring for Will’s veritable forest of plants. There was a large philodendron monstera, a massive rubber plant, three snake plants, a peace lily, a dracaena marginata, a bird of paradise and four types of cacti. All required different methods of care and feeding, and Crowley had started heading to the library to read more about them. Plants were beautiful and silent. Their delicate leaves, broad and lustrous, in multiple shades of green from pale jade to deep emerald. And plants were so trusting, passively reaching out for light and water, their waxy surfaces and spikes and vines and curlicues all so delightful to Crowley, who’d grown up in environments with zero art and no living things outside of a neglected dog or two that hung around the back door, begging for scraps when he’d been a child. 

Will had encouraged his interest in horticulture and encouraged his trips to the library. Soon, that had turned into a series of FE college courses. Crowley however, wanted more. He wanted to go abroad, to the US, to escape London and its bad memories. He wanted to be far from the neighborhoods he’d hustled in. Far from the memories of the petty theft and the drugs and the bars. Then, much to Crowley’s delight, Will had offered to pay for his tuition to go to school for horticulture in the states. There was an intensive program of study at Cornell University in New York state that would earn Crowley a bachelor's degree. It was a prestigious thing to put on a resume, and it would help Crowley find a job after graduation. At first, Crowley had refused to allow Will to pay for the tuition. It was far too much money, but Will had only placed a soft hand to Crowley’s cheek and told him that he had no better thing to spend the money on. No children, no spouse, no need for more than what he had now. He’d worked for many years as a well respected and successful barrister on many high profile cases in the late seventies and early eighties, had made some sound stock investments, and could easily afford it. 

Crowley begged Will to come with him, but Will refused, saying he was too old to start again, and that he loved London. But he recognized that Crowley needed a change, a new direction, and to escape the ghosts of his past. His abusive upbringing and rough times on the streets. 

At the airport, they embraced and Crowley sobbed wetly into Will’s neck, not wanting to leave him. Will reassured him that he’d come visit soon, but Crowley had noticed him getting paler and thinner over the past few months, and feared for his health. Even a head cold could be dangerous with a compromised immune system, and Crowley wanted to stay and care for him. 

“Don’t cry gorgeous,” Will said, pulling Crowley’s face back to look at him with eyes shining and full of love. “I’ll think of you every day and I want you to call me whenever you’re lonely. We can chat whenever you want.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Crowley said through a sob, ignoring the sideways looks they were getting from others in the waiting area at Heathrow. They were clearly behaving too intimately to be a father and son and so people were starting to grumble and stare.

“I know you don’t dearest,” Will replied, gently wiping Crowley’s tears away with his thumbs. “I don’t want you to go either. But I _do_ want you to follow your dreams and get a better life. You can’t entertain an old pervert in his flat forever.”

“But I want to!” Crowley cried, and then they both dissolved into damp giggles at the earnestness of his statement. “I know, I know,” Crowley relented. “I know I can’t just stay with you forever, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful for all you’ve done for me, helping get me into Cornell” (Will had written an impassioned letter of recommendation that Crowley knew had helped seal the deal for his acceptance to the program). “It’s just… It’s just that I’ll miss you so much.”

“And I’ll miss you, darling boy,” Will’s eyes grew misty and Crowley started crying again. The flight attendant’s voice on the overhead sound system announced that they could start queuing up to enter the plane, and Crowley swiftly lurched forward and pressed his lips to Will’s in a kiss. The first and only one they’d ever shared. Will stiffened for a minute, and then melted into the kiss, keeping his mouth carefully closed, but wrapping his arms around Crowley and embracing him fiercely. 

Crowley pulled back to look at Will one last time. “I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you more, you gorgeous creature,” Will replied, and then Crowley, knowing that if he didn’t leave now, he never would, turned and walked away toward the gate. He took up his place in line, ignoring the looks of those who’d seen him kiss a man old enough to be his father in a very un-familial way, and kept his eyes subbornly trained in front of him. When he turned to look a few minutes later, Will was gone. 

_______________________________________

Crowley had excelled in his classes because he loved the subject material and because he refused to engage in the usual practices of university students. He didn’t drink or do drugs or go to parties. He didn’t even date. There were several women who lingered near him in the cafeteria during meal times, and an adorable young man in round spectacles that tried clumsily and shyly to tell Crowley he was interested, mainly by hanging around and asking him lots of unnecessary questions. Crowley did not follow up on any of these advances. Will had paid for his schooling, had made it possible for the entire course of Crowley’s life to change for the better, and Crowley made a promise to himself to get the best grades possible and to focus relentlessly on his studies.

His calls to Will had started out very regular. First every other day, then once or twice a week. But as his studies progressed and he became more and more absorbed in course work, and with going out with the few friends he’d manage to make to diners and movies now and then, his reaching out to his lover waned a little. Will never complained, never asked him if he were seeing anyone else, only patiently listened to him talk about his studies and his experiences in the states. Crowley could hear that Will was sick, in the rasp of his laugh, his chest rattling a little when he coughed. He felt cold dread unfurl inside his gut at the first sound of that horrible noise though the phone, and he begged Will to get medical attention. Will reassured him that he’d been to the doctor, and that he’d be fine. 

A few months later though, he succumbed to illness and passed away. He’d kept his prognosis secret from Crowley, refusing to discuss the particulars and telling Crowley that he was not to disrupt his studies by flying back to see him. Crowley was informed that he’d died by way of a telephone call from hospital staff, as Will had apparently named Crowley as his next of kin. Crowley had clutched the phone to his ear in the student lounge and tried and failed to stifle the great sobs that ripped up and out of him as he’d heard the news. 

As it turned out, Will had also left Crowley with a tidy sum of money in his last will and testament. Even after death, the man was still helping him it seemed, still acting as his guardian angel. Crowley was overcome with grief for a while, and it was only his promise to Will’s memory that kept him going to classes and working hard, rather than sinking into depression or despondency. 

He earned a bachelor’s three years later, then went on to achieve a master’s degree two years after that. Upon leaving university, he applied for, and was immediately accepted for a job by a wealthy corporation who wanted an experienced horticulturist to care for the multiple lush and exotic plants that adorned the gleaming lobbies of their offices in lower Manhattan. Crowley worked for this corporation for several years, which was where he’d met and fallen for Elizabeth. 

Liz was an accountant for the company, and she’d walk through the lobby every day, allowing Crowley to cast hidden glances at her long legs and slender waist and lustrous dark hair through the sheltering leaves of whatever plant he was tending to at the time. Just the sound of her heels tick tacking on the gleaming floors of the lobby had his heart pounding. 

It didn’t take long for him to work up the nerve to ask her out. He’d been single for four years, and the grief of losing Will had ebbed to the point where he found himself longing for that sort of connection again. He hadn’t dated a woman in a long time, and he missed it. Liz had gladly accepted his offer to take her out, and dinner had turned into a night of incredibly hot sex, which had led eventually to a long term relationship. They’d had a good thing going for a few years. He loved her sarcastic sense of humor and her excellent taste in modern art and how they could talk for hours about even the silliest of subjects. For a while, things were peaceful and Crowley was content. 

Unfortunately, Liz was in her mid thirties (while Crowley was quickly approaching forty). She wanted marriage and kids, felt that her time was running out to get pregnant. Although Crowley could see himself marrying one day, the thought of raising children, when he’d had such a miserable experience in his own childhood, had him very opposed to the idea of being a father. He’d made this very clear when they’d started dating, but he supposed she’d hoped to change his outlook eventually. She’d left him after she’d fully accepted that she’d never be able to change his mind, that he’d never want children, and Crowley, heartbroken again, had gone on his own for the next few years. 

The company he worked for had downsized significantly due to some scandal involving embezzlement, and Crowley had found himself suddenly out of a job. He’d need to find employment quickly if he wanted to stay in the country, and after ten years, the money he’d inherited from Will was long spent. A severe rent hike on his tiny apartment on the upper east side forced him to move out and seek another place to live. 

He was looking through the job adverts in a local paper while staying at an overpriced Holiday Inn, when he saw the job posting in Athena NY, a couple of hours north of the city, for a horticulturist and a driver. It seemed the perfect appointment for him, doing something he loved and excelled at, and the advert even offered on site lodging in their guest house. Crowley had emailed his resume to the address provided and had quickly been scheduled for an in person interview. 

He’d lied about having previous chauffeur experience in order to land both jobs, and prayed that they wouldn’t dig too deeply into his past. He’d even set Beez up to act as a fake reference to extol his skills as a personal chauffeur. His potential employers didn’t need to know that the driving he’d done in the UK had been entirely illegal and often in cars that had probably been nicked. They also didn’t need to know that aside from driving Liz places in her car, around the city (to the degree that he’d grown accustomed to the uncanniness of the opposite-side-of-the-street issue), that he didn’t have any previous professional driving experience. But, it was driving a car wasn’t it? One didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to accomplish this basic skill. And New York City driving was the best driving education possible. If you could drive in downtown Manhattan traffic, you could drive _anywhere_. 

This is how he’d met Gabriel and Aziraphale Archer. 

He’d recognized Gabriel Archer right away. The man’s life sized posters were plastered through every Barnes & Noble in Manhattan, and Crowley had seen several displays with carefully stacked piles of his latest book in the windows of bookstores all across the city. He was apparently some sort of relationship expert. Crowley had introduced himself politely to Gabriel, and then to Gabriel’s shy, plump husband Aziraphale, who was mostly notable for being so clearly different from his famous husband, looking bashful and fussy. Not at all the arm candy Crowley had expected a man like Gabriel to have married. They were an odd couple to be sure. Gabriel dressed in the latest fashions, whereas his husband appeared to prefer the wardrobe of a university professor from the 1950s in an old waistcoat and a tartan bow tie. Crowley had never seen anyone wear a bow tie so unironically before.

He’d done a stellar job in the interview. He’d also watched their faces when he said that his last ‘girlfriend’ had left him because he hadn’t wanted children. The look of satisfaction settling over Gabriel’s features upon assuming that Crowley was straight, (much like everyone else did), told Crowley a lot about the man’s disposition. He noted the way Gabriel oh so subtly controlled the conversation, chiding his husband for a misplaced question, correcting his pronunciation of the plants he’d shyly asked Crowley about. Gabriel was clearly a bit of a control freak, and probably struggled with some deep seated insecurities where competition and jealousy were involved. Having a long history of being punished for other people’s jealousy had given Crowley a sixth sense for things like this. And so, for the sake of getting the job, and keeping it low drama, letting Gabriel think that Crowley only fancied women seemed prudent in the moment. He had no desire to draw that man’s suspicion or his ire if he were to be awarded the position. 

Crowley had spent a lifetime dealing with people who saw him negatively because of his looks. Men and women alike were instantly drawn to him for his striking facial features, his amber colored eyes and dark copper hair. He’d stayed fit by going for runs around the city, but remained extremely slender, bordering on ‘skinny’. He always dressed in dark clothing, the tighter the better and he knew that this made him even more appealing to those who had a yen for his particular body type. It was an angle he’d always worked, and it had served him well for the majority of his life. Attractive people like Crowley had doors opened for them that were closed to plainer folks. 

But with all the benefits and privileges his looks bestowed upon him, he was also haunted by the twin spectres of jealousy and envy. Partners would grow suspicious and possessive that all the attention Crowley was awarded would cause him to stray, even though he never did and never had. The partners of his friends would give him dirty looks and often try to prevent his friends from spending time with him, and so he only tended to befriend single people. Straight men and gay women and the occasional heterosexual woman or gay/bi/pan person with a non-jealous partner or who didn’t find Crowley to be their particular cup of tea. And of course, not everyone desired him. Straight women often preferred more built men. Men with more of a square jawed, broad shouldered American football player physique. Crowley’s face was narrow and hawklike. His arms and legs long and thin, and so, he wasn’t universally appealing the way some men were.

Gabriel possessed all of these universally appealing features. He was extremely tall (close to two meters tall if Crowley was any judge), also sort of unfairly well built and handsome in a way that at first had Crowley locking down his facial expressions as they’d shaken hands so as not to stare wide eyed at Gabriel’s face and body. The man was _hot_. 

And his husband, Aziraphale? Aziraphale was… well, definitely not typically attractive in the same way as his tall, handsome spouse. At first, Crowley had barely noticed the shy, soft spoken man with the pale face and white hair, that upon closer inspection turned out to be a pale platinum blond. He almost seemed to fade into the background with Gabriel next to him. 

The interview had been somewhat extensive, and Crowley had spent the better part of two hours speaking to the Archers. Over that time, he began to pick up on a lot of subtle hints about the two men he was speaking to, and began to form a clearer picture of their personalities and their relationship dynamic.

Growing up on the streets had given Crowley a sharp eye for body language and non verbal communication. If you had to ascertain whether a John would pull a knife on you, or if he was a rough sort, you learned swiftly to recognize the cold glint in the eyes of men who leaned towards anger and violence. If you’d spent a good bit of time being yelled at and struck by an alcoholic girlfriend, you learned to recognize the tell tale signs of alcoholism and possessive rage in the way people moved and spoke, the tightening around the eyes, the clenching of a fist, an inability to take a joke, a fleeting microexpression that belied a flash of anger. Crowley was hypersensitive to these subtle clues, and so he was able to read a great deal by simply watching and listening to Gabriel and Aziraphale Archer as they spoke to him and to each other. 

He noted that Aziraphale had kind eyes and a sweet smile, and was far more handsome than he’d first thought, while Gabriel’s smile was fake (though most people wouldn’t be able to tell that with the ease that Crowley could). He noted that Gabriel led the conversation and that Aziraphale often followed his lead. How Aziraphale would speak up about something and how sometimes, Gabriel’s jaw would tighten in irritation, and how he’d correct Aziraphale. Aziraphale would react with his own brand of well worn irritation, which hopefully meant there wasn’t any physical abuse going on. Just a married couple who’s disagreements and pet peeves about each other were well worn and familiar. 

The more he watched Aziraphale, out of the corner of his eye when he was sure Gabriel wasn’t paying attention, the more he liked the man. Gabriel asked him the usual questions. Did he have a history of drug or alcohol abuse? Did he do drugs or drink to excess now? (Crowley didn’t). He asked about Crowley’s education, his work history and experience and for additional contact information for his references. 

Aziraphale on the other hand asked Crowley more emotion based questions. What did Crowley enjoy most about his work? What had first drawn him to horticulture? Was it true what they said about speaking kindly to one's plants making the plants grow better? Crowley had joked that he yelled at his plants instead, and Aziraphale had burst into quite an adorable fit of giggles, which were stifled swiftly with a huff and roll of Gabriel’s eyes in his direction. Still, his smile lingered on past his husband’s obvious passive aggressive attempts to shut him up. Still more evidence that there wasn’t likely any physical abuse going on. Aziraphale was not _afraid_ of Gabriel. That much was clear. But there was however an obvious power dynamic that put Aziraphale firmly in the submissive role. 

Crowley was pleased and a little surprised when he received an email the very next day, giving him the position. By the end of the week, he’d checked out of the dingy Holiday Inn and boarded a bus from Port Authority headed for Poughkeepsie NY. From there, he and his modest luggage were transported by Uber to the Archers’ gorgeous victorian style house on the outskirts of the small, quaint town of Athena New York. He was beyond pleased with the spacious apartment he’d been awarded above the Archers’ two bay garage. It consisted of a large living room, a large bedroom and a small but adequate kitchen and bathroom. He was also blessed with a glorious view of the fields and hills sloping up into the forest behind the house through a massive set of windows in Crowley’s sitting room. The Archers had a large, beautifully maintained swimming pool, and Crowley had been granted full use of it whenever he pleased, though he planned on not using it when Gabriel or Aziraphale were taking a swim. He instinctively knew that hanging around the two of them, or getting too close to Aziraphale might cause problems. 

The Archers’ residence was on the very furthest outskirts of town, and the town of Athena was a bustling place, full of tourist trap cafes, small art galleries, a few high end restaurants and an antique movie theater, a mere fifteen minute drive from the Archers’ estate. All in all, it was the perfect situation. Crowley’s apartment above the garage, though modest, was still significantly larger than his last place in Manhattan, and the town afforded him with the opportunity to get out and maybe meet some new people, or just head down to the bar for a drink or to the local coffee shop for an espresso. 

After his break up with Liz, he’d had next to no desire for a committed relationship, but perhaps there would be opportunities for some fun one night stands in town. He also had two days off per week, Sundays and Wednesdays, corresponding with Aziraphale and Gabriel’s least busy days, when he could travel the two hours into the city to spend the day if he wanted, though he doubted he’d go back there any time soon. He’d had his fill of the stink and bustle and noise of Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs. He liked the idea of spending some time in the peaceful quiet of life in the country. 

Crowley sighed happily as he set his bags down in the living area of his new flat. Yes, he could grow used to it here. A new start to a new chapter in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an additional note, regarding Crowley's hustling on the streets: I am very pro sex worker and pro legalization of sex work, and I know there are lots of people out there who are perfectly happy with whatever sex work they happen to be engaged in. Crowley wasn't traumatized by the sex work he did in his past, but, he did it out of desperation and it was not a choice he made from a secure or stable place. 
> 
> Wanted to make it clear that while he considered the hustling he did to be negative and a bit difficult, that does not mean many others can't make that choice from a strong place and enjoy the work they do. His mentions of the work being disreputable are based on his personal feelings of being lost and out of control, not a remark on sex work as a whole.

Aziraphale waited anxiously on the corner for Crowley to pull up to collect him. He’d gone to town to apply for a position at the local library. They’d put out an advert for a new receptionist and customer service representative, and if Aziraphale knew anything, it was books. The hourly wage was laughably low, but Aziraphale hadn’t applied for the money. He’d applied because after three years of living in Athena NY, he’d grown to feel so incredibly useless. Gabriel was always either away on business trips or secluded in his private rooms doing one on one meditative work with the people who came for his weekend workshops. Crowley was often busy in the greenhouse, or up in his apartment doing who knew what, leaving Aziraphale to amuse himself, and he had run out of things to do.

Aziraphale had grown bored and lonely and sick of feeling like there wasn’t any point to his existence. He’d catalogued and organized their extensive personal library several times and had no new leads on any promising first editions to follow up on lately.

And so he’d filled out the rather simple application for library receptionist and answered the library’s main supervisor's questions with the hope that they’d hire him. Luckily no one drew the normal conclusions when they saw that his last name matched the one of the town celebrity, but Aziraphale supposed it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed. He’d really rather get the job based on his own merit, rather than by being closely aligned with fame. 

It didn’t help that he was being picked up by his  _ personal chauffeur _ . And so he’d walked away from the library's front windows, further down the block a ways to wait for Crowley. 

It was probably thirty seconds later that the dark sedan pulled up and Aziraphale swiftly opened the back door and slid in. He assumed Crowley had been amusing himself in town for the past twenty minutes or so while Aziraphale went to the interview at the library. Aziraphale had texted him only about three minutes ago to say he was ready to head home.

“Hello Crowley,” he said cheerfully, doing up his safety belt and smiling in the direction of the top, right hand corner of Crowley’s face, which was all he could see in the mirror.

“Hey,” Crowley responded with his usual casual manner. 

“How has your day been?” Aziraphale always felt he owed the man some small talk to break the minor discomfort of being driven everywhere like a member of the royal family. They usually went back and forth for a minute or two before lapsing back into comfortable silence for the rest of the drive. On the way into town, Crowley hadn’t said much, and Aziraphale didn’t fancy a silent drive home as well. And anyway, it was time for a change wasn’t it? Time for him to take up more space in the world. And that could involve chatting up his insanely attractive horticulturist and chauffeur, couldn’t it?

“It’s been fine,” Crowley replied pleasantly. “The rhododendrons have been looking a bit pale, but I pulled back on watering them, so they’re doing better now.” 

Aziraphale smiled to himself. He hadn’t asked Crowley about the state of the plants he cared for, but he supposed that the man spent a good part of his week knee deep in greenery, so it made sense that he’d respond the way he had.

“That’s nice,” he replied mildly, then, summoning his courage, he spoke again. “And how are you liking it here in Athena? How have you been outside of the work you’re doing for us?”

It was a loaded question. An invitation for more connection, a more personal one than Aziraphale had offered previously, if that’s what Crowley wanted. Or, he could just as easily brush it off by saying ‘Everything’s great.’ or ‘I’m liking it just fine,’ and that would be the end of that. 

“Oh,” Crowley, obviously a little taken back by the level of interest Aziraphale was showing him, raised an auburn eyebrow above the black circle of his sunglasses lens. 

Aziraphale remembered well the look of Crowley’s large, pale golden eyes, framed by dark lashes. The image of which had burned itself permanently into his brain. His ability to hang onto that memory was fortunate though, as he’d never been blessed with seeing those eyes a second time. The man wore those blasted shades relentlessly. “Well,” Crowley continued, his voice cautious, a little self conscious? “I’m liking it a lot actually.”

Azirphale waited, sensing that there was more to what Crowley wanted to say. His continued silence did the trick, for a few seconds later, Crowley spoke again. “The greenhouse is really fantastic. I mean, your husband’s father really knew what he was doing when he had it built. Its state of the art, even for the… sixties was it? Mid seventies, when it was constructed. And the town is really cute.”

“Have you made many forays into Athena proper?” Aziraphale winced inwardly out of habit upon saying the word ‘forays’. It was just the sort of word that Gabriel subtly mocked him for using. Along with ‘pip pip’ and ‘tickety boo’, and ‘resplendent’, but if Crowley noticed his antiquated, formal language, he gave no indication. 

“Yeah, a few. I like that coffee shop over on south Livingston street. And that Indian restaurant… what’s it called? Saffron? That place is delicious. Ever eat there?”

Aziraphale, trying to hide his surprise at this veritable waterfall of words from his normally reticent employee, stammered a bit as he responded. “Oh.. y-yes! Yes I  _ have _ eaten there, once, with Gabriel a couple of years ago. It was quite delicious if memory serves.”

“Yeah, that vindaloo was the best I’ve ever had, and I came here after living ten years in the city. They really outdid themselves.”

“Do you often eat spicy foods?” Aziraphale asked, knowing it wasn’t the most stellar of attempts at continuing the conversation, but also knowing that he was desperate to keep Crowley talking. This was the most interaction they’d had in weeks. And was bordering on the longest conversation they’d had since he’d started working for the Archers almost a year ago now. 

“Oh yeah. Love it. Thai food, Indian food, spicy Mexican, wasabi on my sushi. If it burns, I’ll eat it.” 

Aziraphale laughed a little too loudly at Crowley’s turn of phrase. “Not me,” he replied, silently cursing at himself for giggling at the man’s non-joke like a smitten school girl, “I had to ask them to make it ‘American spicy’ when we were there, which is to say, not spicy at all. Felt strange to refer to myself as American with the accent I have.” 

“Tell me about it.” Crowley chuckled softly at Aziraphale’s comment and Aziraphale felt his heart rate increase exponentially. “What’s it been like for you being a Brit in the states? Let me guess, everyone must die for your accent.”

“Well, yes, they do.” Admitted Aziraphale. He’d be lying if he said people weren’t always complimenting him on the ‘fancy’ way he spoke. “They also seem endlessly charmed when I call a flashlight a ‘torch’ or refer to an elevator as a ‘lift’. Quite embarrassing really.”

Crowley shrugged and let out another soft laugh.

“You said you came here ten years ago?” Aziraphale prompted him, swiftly grasping for another topic to keep Crowley engaged. “That must have been… interesting.”

“It was,” Crowley agreed, nodding slightly. “I won a scholarship to Cornell and then I found work here after I got my degree. Had a lot of jobs to do with plants and horticulture. Waited tables for a while too. I lived in Manhattan, and hung out in Brooklyn quite a bit. Never spent much time in the other boroughs though.” 

Aziraphale, who was woefully uneducated regarding New York city geography, simply hummed his acknowledgment. Then, realizing that he’d let the tail of the conversation go again, he mentally scrambled to think of another topic. 

“You’ll have to show me around the greenhouse and tell me about the plants sometime,” he spat out, then felt his cheeks start to heat up at the forwardness of inviting himself to a guided tour.

“Uh, yeah. That’d be great,” Crowley replied, after a brief pause during which Aziraphale could hear his pulse thundering in his ears for one and a half beats. Crowley didn’t seem at all put off though, and was Aziraphale losing his mind a little, or was that genuine interest he heard in Crowley’s voice? “You should feel free stop by any time.” he added, making Aziraphale’s stomach clench with a spasm of nervous flutters. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose. Do you have a particular time of day that’s best? I’d hate to take up your time on your days off, so if you can find a few spare minutes while you’re not too busy at work, that would be sufficient.”  _ Dear lord _ , he sounded ridiculous, babbling on. He should have simply said something along the lines of  _ Alright. Maybe I shall _ . Instead, he’d gone on for a solid minute, trying to nail the man down to a date and time. Aziraphale’s blush blazed into a full blown forest fire as he cringed, waiting for Crowley to respond. 

“What about today?” the other man asked, taking Aziraphale completely by surprise. “I have to do some repotting of a few of the plants, and I could use some help.” Then, seeming to realize that he’d just asked his boss to help him do his job, he backpedaled adorably. “I mean... what I meant to say is, that if you  _ wanted _ to help out, you  _ could _ … to get an idea of what goes on in there. No pressure. I can totally do it without help.”

_ Now who’s babbling? _ Aziraphale smiled inwardly at Crolwey’s nervous validations. At least it meant that Aziraphale wasn’t the only one who was a bit socially uncomfortable at the moment. 

He quickly spoke up again, unwilling to let the conversation lapse back into silence like it normally did after two minutes’ time. “You know, I have a book on horticulture in the library.”

“Do you?” Crowley’s eyebrow made a reappearance in the rearview mirror. “Which one?”

“The Well Tempered Garden, by Christopher Lloyd.”

“Yeh, that’s a good one. Bit dated, but it’s got some solid advice,” remarked Crowley, not quite as impressed as Aziraphale had hoped he’d be. 

“Oh, you’ve read it?” What did Aziraphale expect? To introduce Crowley to a book on horticulture he  _ hadn’t _ read? Thereby winning his admiration and respect? The answer to that question was most undoubtedly yes, and so Aziraphale tried to smother the small twinge of disappointment he felt over not coming up with something impressive to tell Crowley about plants, as well as a twin twinge of self recrimination at the expectation that he could have accomplished such a feat in the first place.

“Well, I’ve read a  _ lot _ of books on plants,” came the reply. 

Aziraphale, undaunted, tried again. “When did you say you first became interested in horticulture?”

This question surprisingly resulted in a moment of uneasy silence. Aziraphale was knee deep in worries over how asking what had drawn someone to their vocation of choice could have come across as offensive, when Crowley spoke up again. Only this time, his voice had changed completely. It had gone soft and wistful, as if he were talking about something entirely different than his interest in plants.

“I had a good friend,” he said. “He had tons of plants in his flat, and he asked me to take care of them when he was out of town. That’s what got me hooked. The plants were so peaceful, so quiet and trusting and, I don’t know. They just made me feel calm, taking care of them. I grew up in a place that was pretty chaotic, so it was a nice change.”

Despite the blatant inroad offered to him to bring up Crowley’s childhood, Aziraphale stayed clear of that subject for the time being. Didn’t need to turn this into a therapy session. “That’s lovely,” he said instead. “About the plants I mean.” He didn’t want to imply that Crowley’s childhood was lovely if it wasn’t. “And you said you won a scholarship to Cornell? How fortuitous!”

“Yeah, it was great. Hey, do you know any good restaurants around here beside that Indian place? I’ve been eating too much fast food and pizza delivery lately.” 

It wasn’t lost on Aziraphale that the subject had been swiftly changed out from under him, but at least it had been changed to one of his favorite topics. “Oh yes! I’d love to recommend a few places. There’s this lovely Italian restaurant on Davis, near Whitefarer that I’m sure you’d like.”

They chatted amiably about restaurants and food in general for the remaining few minutes of the trip. Aziraphale wasn’t sure why, but he felt there was a tender spot for Crowley regarding the start of his interest in horticulture and his scholarship, so he decided in the future to stay away from bringing it up. He didn’t want to make the man uncomfortable, especially now that he seemed so amenable to chatting more, to getting to know Aziraphale a little better. 

And why did Aziraphale want to get to know his Chauffeur and horticulturist better? Was it to make the man feel at home? Was it because he wanted to develop a positive working relationship with all of Gabriel’s employees? Nope, it was not. He could barely remember the cook’s name. Agnes something? She was a lovely lady from Trinidad, but they didn’t appear to have much in common, and Aziraphale, beyond complimenting her on the delicious food she made them, hadn’t reached out to get to know  _ her _ better. Same with Octavio, the groundskeeper and maintenance man. To be fair, Aziraphale spoke not a lick of Portuguese, but he had a book on Portuguese in his library. He could have brushed up if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t seem compelled to speak to  _ Octavio _ , now did he. 

Same for Lucy and Gretchen, the massage therapists they had over to the house once a month, or John, the mechanic they took Gabriel’s posh, dark sedan to in town for oil changes and tune ups. Yes, Aziraphale knew their names and was very appreciative of them for their services, but he didn’t want to know every single little thing about them. He wanted to know  _ every single little thing _ about  _ Crowley _ though. He wanted to know where Crowley grew up. He wanted to know what his home life was like, what his first kiss was like. He wanted to know what kind of music he listened to. (And in fact he’d seen two of the man’s CDs peeking out from the center console one day. It looked like a Queen album and a group called “The Velvet” something. Probably bebop.) 

What did Crowley do for fun? Did he have any hobbies? Did he watch telly, and if so, what programs did he like the best? Had he ever had his heart broken? What did he think about art? Would Crowley be interested in seeing Aziraphale’s half finished poetry? What did he sound like when he came?

Aziraphale knew that crushing this hard on a straight man, based solely on the way he looked was just a flight of fancy. Just a pleasant distraction. Nothing could ever happen between them. Aziraphale didn’t have the right body parts to interest Crowley, and even if he  _ had _ , he was a married man and Crowley was his employee. No, it was the worst possible crush for him to have developed. Or, perhaps… the best? It meant he could keep ogling Crowley and pining for him without the tension or the pressure of being expected to  _ do _ anything about it. He’d never tell Crowley that he idly fantasized about stripping him naked and pinning him to a mattress several times a day, and Crowley would likely be horrified to hear it in any case. It was the perfect distraction for lonely, irrelevant Aziraphale, who’s husband only seemed to want sex once a month these days (if he was lucky), and who had nothing going for him but an impressive home library and a handful of half finished poetry. 

They’d pulled up in the circular driveway in front of the house, and Aziraphale shook himself out of his highly inappropriate musings and pulled himself out of the car. He’d long ago forbade Crowley from opening the door for him, a practice that made his face burn with embarrassment. He wasn’t some duchess pulling up to a ball in a pile of hoop skirts, needing a hand down from the carriage, nor was he injured in any way. He could open his own bloody door, thank you very much. He had been far more polite than that when he’d said it, but Crowley had gotten the message right away. 

“Thank you Crowley,” Aziraphale was having trouble meeting the man’s covered eyes as they stood together, a few feet apart, in the drive. “What time should I stop by?” He wanted to make sure to keep this offer on the table. As if the inside of the car cradled a secret world unto itself, where magical things like open invitations to spend more time with Crowley could happen. He needed the invitation to visit the greenhouse to emerge into the world outside the protective shell of the car’s interior and manifest before either of them let its promise melt away. 

“Whenever you like,” Crowley responded. “It’s gonna take me ten minutes to go get changed, but anytime after that. I’ll be there.” And then he grinned. 

Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s grin a few times. Though not nearly often enough. The man’s whole face lit up when he grinned, and a pair of incredibly adorable dimples would make an appearance. He had very straight, white teeth and the incisors were a bit pointed, giving his smile a slightly wolfish quality that made Aziraphale go weak in the knees. 

This time was no different. Aziraphale smiled back, knowing that his return grin was far too broad and dopy for the casual conversation they were having. He nodded swiftly. “Alright then. I’ll go get changed myself and meet you there. Can’t learn about a greenhouse in a bow tie now can I?”

“Probably not the best choice, no,” Crowley agreed. His smile getting a bit wider. 

“Ok, well, I’ll just… go get changed then.”  _ Dear lord man, keep it together _ Aziraphale chided himself silently. He turned away from Crowley, feeling the telltale blush that always took his face hostage when he was second guessing his behavior in social situations blooming to life across his cheeks. He hoped Crowley hadn’t seen it, though probably he had. Probably he knew Aziraphale was utterly smitten with him, and felt superior about it. 

Stuffing down his insecurities for the moment, he hurried to the bedroom he and Gabriel shared on the second floor. Gabriel was with clients today, guiding them through a meditation involving walking through a series of caves and finding their ‘central emotional color’. It was a good meditation, and he always did it on the afternoons of the second day of his retreats. After the meditation came a trust exercise and then a writing exercise about feelings, and so they’d be busy for hours still. 

Not that Aziraphale needed an excuse to learn more about the greenhouse. It was in  _ his _ house after all. But spending quality time with Crowley? He wasn’t as sure that Gabriel would be alright with that, so it was for the best if this little lesson on plants and repotting happened while Gabriel was busy. Aziraphale knew he was being sneaky. He knew he was being a bad husband, slipping off to the greenhouse under the pretense of learning about plants in order to ogle his sexy gardener. It was a situation that felt inches away from a bad romantic comedy or a salacious reality TV show, but in the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Aziraphale, standing in front of his open closet doors, looked at his wardrobe with a critical eye. Could it be that he didn’t possess any trousers that weren’t cream colored? He abhorred jeans, (on himself anyway, finding the ones Crowley wore however to be quite appealing). He could have sworn though he had at least  _ one _ pair of trousers that weren’t dress slacks... didn’t he? 

After much digging, he unearthed an old pair of black tracksuit bottoms he’d purchased when Gabriel had sort of bullied him into going to the gym last year. Aziraphale had kept up with going for about two weeks before beginning to beg off, saying he’d hurt his lower back. Gabriel had sighed with disappointment, knowing he couldn’t force his husband to lose weight, and had given up on the gym thing. The trackies had ended up being tossed in a corner of the closet. 

Aziraphale quickly took off his current pair of trousers and pulled the tracksuit bottoms on, then paired them with a white cotton t-shirt with a local art gallery logo on the front of it. He didn’t look glamorous, felt exposed in such soft, casual clothing, but if there was a possibility that he’d be getting his hands dirty, he wanted to wear clothes he wouldn’t be sad to toss in the trash if they got stained. 

He hurriedly checked his hair in the mirror. It still looked like he’d gotten caught in a rather unforgiving hurricane, (but who cared anyway? The man was  _ straight _ ) and rushed out the door to head down to the greenhouse. 

Embarrassingly, he beat Crowley there, and was forced to wait, extremely awkwardly inside the greenhouse, hands reaching for pockets which were no longer there as he was not wearing his customary waistcoat or jacket. He used the time to wander around the aisles a bit, admiring the flower beds and the tall green plants that towered over him to the ceiling. 

“Hey,” he heard as Crowley opened the doors at the back and entered about thirty seconds later. He was wearing a pair of gardening gloves, a ratty pair of jeans with holes in the knees and a faded T-shirt that might have once been black, but now was a soft, worn gray color. It clung to the shape of his chest and upper arms and his stomach in a way Aziraphale found extremely pleasing. 

“Hello!” Aziraphale piped back, a bit too cheerfully for just having seen the man eight minutes ago. 

“So,” began Crowley. “I have to re-pot the snake plants today. I’d be happy to show you how that’s done, and if you want, like I said, you can even help me out.”   
  


“That would be lovely,” replied Aziraphale as he followed Crowley down one aisle and over to a corner where several rather large potted plants with tall, spiky green leaves were sitting in terracotta pots. 

“These beauties are sansevieria trifasciata, or snake plants,” Crowley explained. “They’re probably the easiest plants to care for, because you can neglect them for weeks and they don’t even seem to notice,” 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but snort at Crowley’s description, but then reined himself in again. No need to fawn over every single thing the man said, was there? 

“They’ve gotten a bit too big for their britches, and we need to transport them to larger pots. What I’ve got to do first is to take a rather large spade, like this,” he paused to show Aziraphale the spade he held in his hands. It was sharp and flat and Aziraphale nodded dutifully, “and then, shove it down into the pot along the outer border. Sort of like how you’d cut around the segments of a grapefruit… see, like this.” Crowley vigorously shoved the spade into the pot along the side, his back and shoulder muscles working under the thin material of his t-shirt. 

Aziraphale gulped, his mouth going dry. “Yes. I see that. Interesting,” he managed to get out. 

Crowley continued to work, shoving the spade into the dirt at the edge of the pot, turning it as he went with sure hands that had clearly done this particular action a thousand times. 

“It’s quite a physical job isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley huffed out a brief laugh. “Yeh,” he agreed with a nod, “It is. I mean, you don’t have to be a bodybuilder to do it, but there’s definitely some heavy lifting and some physical exertion involved.”

Aziraphale could think of no further response to that, and so he simply watched Crowley work in silence for a moment. Crowley had shoved the spade into the dirt at the edges of the pot almost all the way around, and within another few seconds, he finished up. “Now comes the part where you could help if you wanted.” He looked up at Aziraphale through his shades, his face poised in a questioning expression, and Aziraphale realized he was expected to respond.

“Oh! Yes, certainly,” he replied, kicking himself for staring at the man like a fool. “Please, I’d love to help.” 

“Alright then, we’ll need to pull the plant out of the pot and put it into a new, larger one. I’ve prepared these new, bigger pots with soil, so if you can hold this pot down by the rim, I’ll pull the plant out and lift it into the new one.”

“Alright then,” Aziraphale replied, nodding swiftly. “Shall I just…?” He stepped closer and leaning down, placed his hands on the rim of the old pot. 

“Well.. um, you should actually…” Crowley reached out, clearly meaning to grab Aziraphale’s hands and reposition them, and Aziraphale jerked backwards involuntarily. Both of them froze for an awkward second. “Erm, you should move your hands out wider on the rim of the pot…” Crowley explained gruffly. “You know, like as far apart as possible, to hold it down.” 

“Oh, yes, I see now. Thank you.” Aziraphale made sure to smile brightly at Crowley to compensate for jerking away from his touch as if burned.  _ Stupid! _ His inner voice chided him harshly.  _ He tries to touch you and you pull back. Nice job, _ he chided himself silently. To cover for his embarrassment, he moved his hands out wider on the rim of the pot and pressed down in preparation for Crowley to pull.

Apparently, he hadn’t pressed down hard enough, because the first tug Crowley gave to the body of the plant had the pot jumping up and coming down again with a solid thunk. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale jumped to apologize. “I’ll use a bit more pressure shall I?”

“It’s fine,” Crowley reassured him with a swift, casual shake of his head, “And yeah, you can really lean your weight onto it.”

“Well then, with how much I weigh, it’s unlikely to budge,” Aziraphale joked. Crowley’s face behind his shades remained expressionless, and Aziraphale wondered if self deprecating humor wasn’t appreciated in this situation. 

“Ready?” Crowley asked, poised with his gloved hands gripping the plant by the very bottom.

“Ready,” replied Aziraphale with a small nod, leaning the full weight of his body down onto the rim of the pot. 

Crowley pulled again, slowly, and this time, the massive block of dirt moved a few inches out of the pot, cresting the rim and displaying a glimpse of the network of thin roots that lay, curled in the dark soil. Crowley pulled again, and then a third time and managed to pull the plant, roots, dirt and all, free from the confines of the pot. The thing must have weighed quite a bit, for he grunted softly with the exertion. He quickly moved it to the new pot and set it down. 

“There!” he said cheerfully. “Now all I have to do, and you can help with this too if you want, but it’ll get your hands dirty, is to fill in some extra potting soil around the edges, and that’s it.”

“Oh, yes, I’d like to help,” Aziraphale stood, wiping his hands down the sides of his tracksuit bottoms as Crowley brought over a bag of potting soil. “I can get you a pair of gloves if you’d like,” he offered, “Getting the dirt out from under your nails is damn near impossible.” 

“Perhaps that would be for the best,” Aziraphale replied, after a moment’s hesitation, during which he pictured Gabriel asking him why he had dirt under his nails. 

“Be back in two shakes,” Crowley leapt up and jogged to the doors of the greenhouse and out, like some sort of red headed gazelle, letting them bang unceremoniously behind him. 

Aziraphale let all the air in his lungs out in a long, heavy sigh and ran his hands through his hair. Was this really happening? Was he spending time with Crowley and learning about plants? As if they were becoming friends? 

_ Friends. _ What if he and Crowley actually  _ did _ become friends? Where would that lead? It was tough enough for Aziraphale being around the man while being driven to appointments and events, but to be this close to Crowley, to chat with him and laugh with him and help him with his work… it was already doing a number on Aziraphale’s nervous system. 

And what about Gabriel? He’d surely get suspicious if he knew that Aziraphale was spending time with Crowley that wasn’t strictly necessary. Aziraphale felt a sudden twinge of guilt over how much he was enjoying this little horticultural lesson. But still, didn’t he deserve to pursue things that intrigued him? To explore new interests? He’d just applied for a job in town and now, he was learning about plant life. He’d become frightfully bored over the last couple of years and if he wanted to learn how to repot snake plants from his personal horticulturist, well, he should have every right to do so!

It was a valid excuse on paper. In real life though, taking into account the fact that Crowley looked like the lead singer of a pop band in the best possible way, and the fact that Aziraphale had never shown any interest in plants before Crowley had come along… his motives started to look like they maybe weren’t that pure. And Gabriel would catch on immediately. Aziraphale could already see the tightening of his jaw, the narrowing of his husband’s eyes when Aziraphale told him that he’d been learning more about the greenhouse from Crowley. That the two of them had been working on repotting snake plants with their heads together, with Crowley close enough that Aziraphale could detect the sweet smell of the man’s sweat. 

The greenhouse doors banged open again and Crowley was jogging toward him with an extra pair of gardening gloves. He handed them to Aziraphale with a small smile and Aziraphale forced himself to focus on tugging them on, rather than just standing there, smiling back like a besotted fool. 

Together, they placed handfuls of new potting soil, dark and crumbly with white bits in it, (which Crowely informed him were actually bits of volcanic glass that had been treated with intense heat), around the base of the plant and patted them down until the snake plant was snuggly encased in it’s new home. Then they repeated the process three more times. Crowley chatted as he worked, assuming that Aziraphale would step in once he’d finished his spade work, and Aziraphale felt inordinately pleased to be relied upon to help someone. It felt good. Gabriel never needed help. 

“You’re a natural at this,” Crowley remarked as they were again, kneeling by a new pot, tucking yet another plant into a bed consisting of handfuls of dark soil. 

“Well, I’ve had a good teacher,” Aziraphale replied, and did he imagine that Crowley’s hands stuttered a bit in the act of grasping a new batch of soil?

“I’d be happy to teach you more,” he replied, keeping his voice casual and his eyes and face turned down towards the task at hand, letting Aziraphale have the privacy he’d need to say no.

“Oh, I’d like that very much!” Aziraphale couldn’t help but let some of his inner joy leak out in his voice. “I’ve been curious about what you’ve been doing in here since you arrived. It all seems so mysterious.”

“Nah,” Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing mysterious about it. Just dirt and water really.” He was downplaying his skills, and Aziraphale let him. Now was not the time to start in with abject praise. 

“What’s next?” Aziraphale asked expectantly. 

“Well,” Crowley paused, climbing to his feet and wiping his gloved hands on his tattered jeans, “You could help me clean and water the fiddle leaf fig trees in the other room here…” he paused, waiting for Aziraphale to respond.

“That sounds delightful,” Aziraphale said, also getting to his feet, a little less gracefully and knocking his gloved hands together to shake loose the excess dirt that was clinging to them. He followed Crowley into another room, this one far sunnier than where the snake plants were kept. A row of tall, broad leafed plants towered together in a bright corner, looking a little like a group of gossiping debutants. 

“These beauties are all about the sunshine,” Crowley said, stepping up to them and gently grasping a wide, delicately veined leaf between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve neglected them just a little, so they need to be dusted and watered.”

“Dusted?” Aziraphale asked, visions of a maid with a feather duster traipsing through his mind.

“Well, not quite  _ dusted  _ in the traditional sense. I take a damp paper towel and clean the dust and grit off their leaves once every week or so. It helps them absorb more sunlight,” he explained. 

“Ah, I see,” replied Aziraphale. He stood and admired the tall, wide leafed plants for a moment while Crowley removed his gloves and went to a sink in the corner, returning a minute later with a generous swath of damp paper towel for each of them. 

“You can start on the ones over there, and I’ll start on this end,” he said with a small smile. Aziraphale removed his own gloves and dutifully began wiping down the leaves, casting curious glances at Crowley and emulating his motions. Crowley used gentle swabbing motions to clean the dust off the plants, his hands moving swiftly but thoroughly over the surface of the leaves, making them damp and gleaming in the wake of his paper towel. 

Aziraphale had never wanted to be a plant so badly as he did in that moment. But he swallowed down his feelings and focused instead on doing a good job cleaning each leaf on his own plant. Treating them with patience and gentleness as Crowley was doing. After that, he helped Crowley water them, only giving each plant so much water, not overdoing it. 

Once they were finished, the sun had moved in the sky to the point where Aziraphale could tell it was almost time for supper. 

“Thank you for this wonderful introduction to horticulture,” he said shyly, “It really helped me understand what you do out here, and how important it is. I never knew there were such different and specific ways to care for each plant.”

Crowley looked down at the floor, scrubbing at the back of his neck and grinning self consciously. “Yeah, I forget too, I’ve been doing it for so long. It’s rare that anyone else shows an interest in plant life, so I get used to not talking about it.”

Azirapahle felt a twinge of guilt over the knowledge that he’d only asked about the plants as a way to selfishly get to spend more time around Crowley. But… all in all, it had been a highly fascinating and enjoyable afternoon, spent working with his hands and chatting with Crowley. He mollified himself with the knowledge that he  _ was _ in hindsight interested in the care and feeding of plants. Even if he hadn’t been originally. “Well, I find it all very fascinating,” Aziraphale replied, unable to look directly at Crowley.

“You can come back anytime.” the other man replied softly. “You know, just stop in whenever.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop as if he’d suddenly boarded a roller coaster, mid ride. “Oh, well, certainly. Perhaps I’ll do that.”  _ as soon as possible _ he thought. “Thanks again. I’ll see you later… have a nice evening.”

“Yeah, you too.” Crowley said with a small wave.

Aziraphale made his way immediately to his and Gabriel’s bedroom and ran himself a hot shower, hoping to wash off the dirt and throw his gardening clothes in the hamper before Gabriel spotted him. But he needn’t have worried. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen, and Aziraphale assumed he was still working with clients. They’d break for dinner in the dining room soon though, and Aziraphale was expected to attend. 

He quickly undressed and tossed his soiled clothes, covered with the sweat and dirt of real, honest to goodness labor for the first time in Aziraphale’s life, into the hamper and stepped into the hot shower with a sigh of relief. 

He let the hot water cascade down his sweaty back and plaster his hair to his head and took a moment just to luxuriate in the feel of it, washing him clean and warming his skin. Then he shampooed his hair and began scrubbing soap under his arms and across his chest, and then his hands drifted lower…

He knew he really shouldn’t be thinking about Crowley while in the shower, and definitely not while stroking himself with a soap slicked hand. It felt wronger than it normally did because now they had gotten a little closer to a real acquaintanceship. It also felt thrilling and hot and dangerous and Aziraphale knew he had no intention of stopping. The sight of Crowley’s lanky body, bent over a massive pot, hands full of dark potting soil and T-shirt just starting to cling a little to the top of his chest with sweat… Crowley, oh so gently divesting the fiddle fig tree leaves of dust with precise strokes of the damp paper towel held in his delicate, long fingered hands. What else could those fingers do, he wondered? There were probably quite a few happy women out there that knew the answer to that question. 

Aziraphale imagined what Crowley’s hands would feel like sliding up his thighs and heading for his aching cock and let out a low moan, his head falling back against the tiles of the shower with a soft thump. He imagined Crowley’s expressive mouth parting in a sly smile, just before he fitted those gorgeous lips over the head of Aziraphale’s cock and slid his mouth down on it to the hilt. 

“Oh fuck,” Aziraphale gasped out as he increased the speed of his strokes. “ _ Oh fuck _ ,” just the thought of what it would feel like to have Crowley’s hot, wet mouth on his cock had brought him effortlessly to the edge of orgasm. He tried to hold off for a few more seconds, but then, his unhelpful mind supplied him with the image of Crowley looking up at him, with those golden eyes of his… looking up at him with his cheeks hollowed around Aziraphale’s cock and that particular image pushed him over the edge. Aziraphale found himself gritting his teeth to silence his moans as his orgasm ripped through him and his hot semen joined the suds of the soap still coating his pumping fist.

It took him several moments to come back down to earth, and once he did, he finished washing up and turned the shower off in a haze of post orgasmic tingles. He got out and towelled off, hearing Gabriel, who’d finally come upstairs to their bedroom, rooting around for a new set of clothes probably. He cringed inwardly, not really wanting to see Gabriel right now, not while his cheeks were still flushed from climax and his mind was still swamped with illicit thoughts of their gardener.  _ Gabriel’s _ gardener if he were being accurate. He wrapped the towel around his waist and with a deep breath to center himself, he swung the bathroom door open.

Gabriel turned to look at him from where he was rummaging through the top drawer of his wardrobe. “Hey babe, have you seen my black t-shirt? The plain one. I want to look casual tonight at dinner.”

“It's in the middle drawer, next to your white T-shirts,” Aziraphale replied. 

“Oh, yeah. Thanks. You’re coming tonight right? Dinner’s in twenty minutes.”

Aziraphale nodded, going to his closet to pick out some clothes. 

“Why don’t you wear that nice sweater I got you for Christmas?” Gabriel said, swiftly changing shirts so that the last half of his sentence came out muffled. “The cable knit one. It’s better than that old fashioned get up you’re always wearing.”

Aziraphale flinched at yet another derogatory mention of his clothing. “Must I?” he asked, with a petulant tone to his voice that he loathed, but couldn’t help.

“I mean it’s cute and all, the bow tie thing. People seem to dig it, but after a while, it starts getting a little… I don’t know... embarrassing.” 

“Embarrassing?” Aziraphale felt a flash of hurt indignation flare up inside his chest and crawl across his scalp. “Are you  _ embarrassed _ of me Gabriel?” He wanted the man to say it, to admit that he’d grown tired of Aziraphale, that he’d started taking him for granted. 

Gabriel picked up on the warning tone of Aziraphale’s voice and took a deep breath. He walked over to Aziraphale and placed his warm hands on Aziraphale’s naked, still damp shoulders. “Babe,” he said, putting on his kindest, most understanding facial expression. It was one Aziraphale knew well, but for some reason, even though he knew it was likely put on to get Gabriel out of trouble, he still fell for it. Every time he fell for it.

“Yes?” Aziraphale willed himself to stare coldly into Gabriel’s eyes and not melt into a puddle of forgiving goo under the onslaught of apologetic caring plastered across Gabriel’s face.

“Of  _ course _ I’m not embarrassed of you baby.” Gabriel cooed. “You’re my little panda bear and I love you. I just wish you’d dress more...  _ appropriately  _ sometimes. I’m-” here, he paused and Aziraphale saw him abruptly change the direction of his sentence. “ _ We’re _ co running a business here together, you and me. And my clients come here expecting professionalism. They see me as well dressed and in control of my life and I want them to see my husband, my life partner as being as polished and handsome as possible. You’re gorgeous babe, you just dress like an eighty five year old man. So, what d'ya say? Wear the sweater this one time? Just see how you like it. Maybe we can go into the city and get you some new clothes next weekend.”

Aziraphale wanted to tell Gabriel that he’d wear whatever he damn well pleased. He wanted to tell Gabriel to mind his business regarding his opinion on Aziraphale’s appearance. He wanted to ask what was so wrong with him dressing the way he liked. But he didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he nodded, dropping his eyes from Gabriel’s face. Best not to make waves when he was just spending time with and wanking over thoughts of Crowley. And beyond that, he never quite had the courage to bring up the source of their issues. The broader scope of the problems in their marriage. 

Gabriel leaned down, seeking Aziraphale’s eyes out again with his own, increasing the charm by approximately 33 percent as he grinned softly and indulgently at Aziraphale.

“If you don’t like it, you can take it off after dinner,” he said. 

“Sure. Alright,” Aziraphale replied, accepting defeat with a wan smile, turning away to go find a pair of dress trousers and the new sweater. He was sure he’d put it on a shelf in the closet somewhere. Probably still in the department store box it had come in. It was soft and gray and subtle and elegant looking, and not really like anything Aziraphale normally wore. Too modern. 

Another thing his parents had helped instill in him was a respect for tradition and a distrust of things that were new and flashy. He was raised to be frugal, to mend and refurbish, not to acquire expensive new clothes. Also, they’d instilled in him a strong aversion to confrontation and an urge to be of service to others. His emotional inheritance had always been a mixed bag. 

He eventually found the sweater and unfurled it, holding it out at arm's length. Gabriel, assuming he’d smoothed over any hurt he could have caused with the ‘embarrassing’ comment, excused himself with a quick peck to Aziraphale’s cheek and then hurried back downstairs to the dining room, where his guests, the Bradfords, and the Colberts were waiting. 

Aziraphale sighed and pulled the sweater on over his white undershirt. He looked at himself in the mirror and did not at all like what he saw. The sweater, which on someone like Gabriel would have accentuated his broad chest and flat stomach, only made Aziraphale look like a soft, gray ball. It clung to his round stomach and his thick shoulders in a way that made him flinch away from his reflection.

He realized belatedly just how much a suit of armor his bow ties and waistcoats were. They encased him in stiff fabric, covered him in alternating layers so that he could hide and confuse the shape of his body. Ironically, his old fashioned jackets that tapered at the waist and his button down shirts and his ancient, velveteen waistcoat did more to cover him up and flatter his shape than a slightly baggy sweater ever could. 

Still, he wanted to make an effort. Wanted to show his husband that he supported the business, supported Gabriel and his endeavors. If wearing an unflattering sweater for the evening won Aziraphale some of Gabriel’s approval and made Gabriel look good in front of his clients, then who was he to say no?

Sighing, he wandered downstairs to join his husband and his guests for dinner. 


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley tried to focus on the remainder of the work he had to do for the day in the greenhouse, and for the most part, he succeeded. If, by ‘succeeded’, one meant he only day dreamed about his employer’s husband every ten minutes. 

Discovering that he found Aziraphale attractive was a slow thing, a feeling that had washed over him so gradually that it had felt like a profound revelation when it finally did hit him. He’d realized it fully several weeks into his employment with the Archers. 

Aziraphale wasn’t plain, but he was plump and quiet and soft, qualities that at first conspired to render him almost invisible. Aziraphale seemed to melt into the background when Gabriel was with him. His pale hair and pale face giving him a slightly washed out appearance, and his hesitant mannerisms did not lend themselves well to immediate recognition as a sex object. 

At first, Crowley had assumed that Aziraphale fell into the same category as a particular type of man he’d known over the course of his life. Submissive, spineless, resentful over the lack of attention he received. He seemed overly apologetic, shy, cautious and afraid of his own shadow, or so Crowley had assumed.

He’d been wrong of course. Aziraphale, upon closer inspection, was actually capable of being quite the bastard. He generally bowed to Gabriel’s more dominant personality, but when he felt he’d been wronged, or when he vehemently disagreed with Gabriel (during arguments in the back of the car while Crowley studiously pretended not to hear them), he had a way of stating his point clearly and concisely, and of not backing down. He didn’t pout, like Crowley assumed he would, only stuck to his guns with an unwavering resolve that Crowley couldn’t help but admire. 

He vividly remembered a conversation Gabriel and Aziraphale had in the back seat of the car late last year, when Crowley had driven them to a Christmas party in Kingston. 

_I’m looking forward to the buffet at least,_ Aziraphale had said, his voice going soft and wistful like it often did when he discussed food. A fact that Crowley was growing to find heart meltingly adorable. _Suzanne makes these stuffed mushrooms that are simply divine_. 

_You should take the stuffing out and just eat the mushroom_ opined Gabriel smugly. _Mushrooms are high in vitamin E, and the white bread people usually use for stuffing in those things is packed full of sugars and empty calories._ Being the tool that he was, Gabriel just _had_ to pipe up with diet advice. The man, and his green smoothies and fake sugar and his obsessive avoidance of dairy products had swiftly gotten on Crowley’s nerves. And besides, mushrooms contained vitamins C and D, _not E._

_It’s pointless to remove the stuffing_ Aziraphale had remarked stiffly. _That’s the most delicious part. Otherwise, it’s just a slimy old mushroom._

_Oh yeah, well, if you removed the stuffing from foods, you’d have less stuffing around your middle_ came Gabriel’s predictably insensitive response. Crowley silently imagined punching him in his smug face, but kept his eyes trained on the road and off the rearview. Giving the couple as much privacy as he could. 

He’d expected Aziraphale to cave and apologize, or simply lapse into sullen silence, but to his surprise, quite the opposite happened.

_Gabriel, I know you’re not fond of the fact that I’ve grown soft. You certainly remind me of it on a regular basis. I have tried to lose weight many times, and it is something that I simply can’t seem to make work for myself. So, despite my failure at becoming smaller, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t point out my weight issues in front of Crowley, or in front of any of the guests at this party. I’d like to eat what I please this evening, without you looking over my shoulder, thank you very much._

_Damn!_ Crowley had thought, feeling a flush of pride swell inside his chest for his soft spoken, polite seeming employer. Gabriel was a prat for the way he talked to Aziraphale, and he deserved all of the sass Aziraphale threw at him. Sass that Crowley frankly hadn’t known Aziraphale was even capable of before that moment.

A swift look in the rearview showed Gabriel turning red from his collar to his hairline. He could have doubled down on the fat comments, but instead, he’d appeared to make a wise decision and had given in, saying _fine. I’ll drop it._

Crowley was impressed. That little verbal scuffle told him that while Aziraphale unfortunately still thought he needed to apologize for his body, he wasn’t just going to lay down and let Gabriel walk all over him. There was some sort of emotional blackmail the couple had on one another that Crowley hadn’t quite figured out yet. He could see Gabriel holding back from going for the jugular during these types of spats. He could just _feel_ the man restraining himself. But why? It wasn’t because he wanted to avoid hurting Aziraphale. If that were the case, he wouldn’t say such thoughtless things in the first place. There was something he needed from Aziraphale aside from sex and companionship. Crowley wasn’t sure what it was, but either way, he was glad that Aziraphale had his own form of artillery to protect himself somewhat from Gabriel’s thoughtless comments. 

That had been the first time Crowley had seen such a blatant display of Aziraphale’s courage and sharp wit. After that day, he’d paid closer attention to the gentle, cautious man that shared a house and a life with his dynamic, scene-stealing husband. And in doing so, he started to learn more about Aziraphale. And the more he learned about the white-blond man with the nervous hands, the more he liked him. 

Aziraphale was _clever_. His offhand yet hilarious jokes, silly puns and hopelessly old fashioned vocabulary having about them the delicate articulation of a long gone era. A time when men in woolen coats, brass buttons and tri corner hats traded carefully crafted barbs in order to prove their good breeding and expensive education. A time when witty repartee was something to work for and cultivate, before Facebook and text messages made everyone’s speech stunted and full of ever increasing acronyms. 

Aziraphale belonged in a mini series on Masterpiece Theater. Not in the fast paced world of social media or new age philosophies. One could easily imagine him in a ruffly lace shirt and knee breeches, with heeled boots on his feet, perhaps a powdered wig on his head. He had a social presence of a man from three hundred years ago, and Crowley found that incredibly charming. 

Aziraphale was also very kind, a fact that took Crowley a little longer to parse out, being that he’d initially been tempted to see Aziraphale as a passive aggressive complainer, struggling under the restrictive yoke of his prat of a husband. Eventually though, he saw Aziraphale stooping to lovingly scratch the household cat (Archimedes) behind the ears while whispering sweet nothings to him in a high pitched voice. Or how Aziraphale unfailingly thanked all the household staff (Crowley included) with heartfelt gratitude for everything they did for him (while Gabriel acknowledged them far less often, and usually only with a brisk nod). Or how Aziraphale’s face melted into the loveliest smile whenever he saw an animal or a baby. Or how his face lit up with delight upon seeing a hot air balloon rising above the pine trees that fringed their estate. He was full of wonder and childlike glee over the smallest things, and he veritably glowed with kindness.

It was this sweetness and kindness that served as an inroad for Crowley to see him in a sexual manner. Crowley was a sucker for kindness. He’d done a lot of work on himself since his young years, when an abusive partner felt like home, like what he deserved. He’d worked hard to reverse those well worn, unconscious emotional cycles from childhood. He’d worked hard to condition himself to liking kindness and softness and consideration. His relationship with Will had gone a long way towards him growing accustomed to loving treatment. The man had taught him, both explicitly and implicitly, that if you loved someone, then you cared for them, protected them and wanted the best for them. Aziraphale behaved like the type of person who would treat a lover like that. He was kind and patient with everyone who crossed his path, even Gabriel, who struggled not to be abrasive with Aziraphale, but couldn’t seem to help snapping at him and criticizing him on a regular basis.

If he were honest, Aziraphale wasn’t even Crowley’s usual type. He preferred slender men, muscular men, women with small breasts and narrow hips. Aziraphale was neither slender nor particularly muscular, and yet he possessed a startling sex appeal that unveiled itself more and more as Crowley spent more time around him. 

Crowley could actually remember the moment it hit him, that he wanted Aziraphale. Or perhaps _wanted_ was too base a word. It was the moment he knew he wanted to get _closer_ to Aziraphale. To _protect_ him, to _touch_ him, to make him happy somehow. It went deeper than simple sexual desire, and it had taken Crowley utterly by surprise. 

He’d been driving the soft spoken blond man to and from a weekly book club meeting in Poughkeepsie on Tuesday evenings. He knew Aziraphale enjoyed the club, because he’d get this nervous excitement on the drive over, then, he’d be flushed and smiling (likely from just having enjoyed a lively discussion and some warm laughs with the other book club members), when he slid into the back seat of the car for the drive home. 

Crowley had taken to idly checking Aziraphale out in the rearview mirror on drives when it was just the two of them. This was easily accomplished without the other man’s knowledge, because Crowley perpetually kept his dark glasses on. His eyes, so pale and pretty (as many people had told him over the course of his life) had a sensitivity to light that Crowley found irritating, and as a secondary benefit, the shades allowed him to keep under the radar. Kept his feelings hidden and allowed him to watch things without being seen watching. 

Aziraphale usually waited for Crowley on the street outside the club’s host’s house. It was situated on a side street without too much foot traffic. Crowley had pulled up beside where Aziraphale stood on the pavement, and rolled down the window to give Aziraphale his customary greeting and wave hello. Immediately afterwards, a group of (clearly) drunk partiers from a bar down the street were just stumbling by. 

“Hey grandpa!” yelled a woman with carefully coiffed beach waves, as she tottered to a stop on heels that were far too tall for the number of cocktails she’d obviously consumed. “Where’d you park your time machine!” 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Aziraphale, probably not quite believing someone could be that rude, had a cautious, confused look on his face, and that tragic half-smile people get when they haven’t quit realized they were the butt of a joke… when they thought for a few split seconds, that maybe the person was being friendly and cheeky, but not mean. 

“Yeah!” chimed in a man in a sports jersey, coming to stand unsteadily next to Beach Waves. “Check out Downton Abbey over here!” he cackled like a hyena and high fived his friend, who looked to be about five minutes away from puking into the bushes.

They weren’t imaginative insults, and they could have been far more biting. They _could have_ called Aziraphale a ‘faggot’ or a ‘pansy’, but this was a liberal town in the northeast, and these arsholes were at least politically correct when they made fun of someone for being different. Still, they’d stopped in their slow crawl home in order to continue ogling Aziraphale’s waistcoat and bow tie, and so now something had to be done about it. 

Crowley turned his head in time to see Aziraphale flinch where he stood on the pavement, saw him realize fully that they’d _intended_ to be mean, and watched while his face crumbled gently into an expression of shame and disappointment. 

That hurt look on Aziraphale’s face flipped some sort of switch inside Crowley. His vision darkened around the edges and he found himself consumed with cold rage. He felt his face begin to burn and his shoulder muscles clench as he immediately swung the door open and unfolded himself from the driver’s seat of the car.

“Oi! Piece of shit drunken twats,” he said, proud of himself for keeping his voice steady and friendly despite the epic amounts of adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Go find somewhere to sleep it off before I make your night a lot less pleasant.” He made sure that he spoke loud enough to be heard over their jeering and cackling, but not so loud as to imply that he cared enough to yell. He knew how to sound like he meant business, because he _did_ mean business. He’d been in quite a few fist fights in his day, and what he may have lacked in muscle mass, he more than made up for with wirey flexibility and a mad sort of courage born of surviving on the streets for over a decade. 

The arseholes immediately quieted down. Sports Jersey, large and red faced with anger, stepped closer to the car and to Crowley. Crowley saw Aziraphale’s hands come up in a cautioning gesture out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. 

“Oh my god they're _both British_ ” he heard one of the women whisper through a hysterical giggle. 

“You wanna say that again, pussy?” the man slurred, daring to step a little closer. 

Crowley, unbeknownst to anyone, carried a knife in his inner suit jacket pocket. He’d purchased it from a rather shady shop back in the city, just as insurance, and had luckily never had the opportunity to use it, nor did he particularly want to. But his past life had ensured that he knew exactly _how_ to use it, and ways to make it look as intimidating as possible, so as to scare off unsavory types. 

Now, he reached deftly into his pocket, withdrawing the knife with a flourish of his slender fingers that he knew from practice and repetition would make it look as if the blade just appeared in his hand out of nowhere. It was a skill he'd picked up on the streets, and he swiftly snapped the knife open one handed, before using it to clean the ever present potting dirt under his thumbnail. Simultaneously, he leaned against the car, the picture of languid relaxation in his black jacket, and gave the man an expressionless stare through his shades. 

“Not really,” he said, his voice gone silky smooth and threatening. “Hate repeating myself if I’m honest.” 

The man’s eyes went wide and he backed away making a strangled sound. _Americans_ , thought Crowley with an inward eye roll. They were so focused on guns, they forgot that knives were a thing, whereas in places like the lower income housing neighborhoods in Dagenham and Havering, they were an everyday occurrence. It wasn’t strictly legal for him to be carrying the knife, but he was betting that the sight of it would wipe protests about local laws out of the man’s mind. He was right. 

“You fucking freak!” the man yelled bravely while stumbling away as quickly as he could. Ah, the last defense of the meathead. To yell insults while running away. Crowley let a slow, dangerous smile crawl across his face as the man and his opinionated friends made a hasty exit down the street and around the corner. 

Next to him, a few feet away on the pavement, Crowley heard Aziraphale let out a long gust of a sigh, probably relieved that no one had resorted to fisticuffs. Crowley made the knife disappear again with a deft flurry of fingers, then turned his head to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale gave him a stiff nod, face full of surprise, and gratitude and something else, harder to identify, and then opened the door and bent to slide into the back seat. Crowley got back in the driver’s seat and they departed without another word. 

As they drove back to the house, Crowley struggled to keep his eyes on the road. He kept flicking glances in the mirror to look at Aziraphale in the back seat. The street lights as they drove past, cast gleaming stripes of illumination across Aziraphale’s face and hair, making him glow at intervals, lighting up his pale hair like a halo. He looked like a fucking angel. Why did he look like an angel to Crowley when only last week he’d appeared to be a normal, mortal man? 

Aziraphale kept his eyes fixed out the window, gazing into the evening shadows, oblivious to Crowley’s furtive glances. His hands rested open and relaxed, palms down on the tops of his thighs and his mouth was quirked up a little on one side, as if he were secretly pleased about something. Was he pleased with Crowley coming to his rescue just now? Crowley hoped so. He hadn’t planned on being quite so Robin Hood about it, but his ability to think rationally had sort of flown out the window the second those obnoxious buffoons had insulted Aziraphale.

He silently marveled at the intense swell of protectiveness he’d felt towards Aziraphale. Why? Why had those twats made him want to step between Aziraphale and harm. He hadn’t threatened anyone with his knife before. He hadn’t so much as shown it to anyone, and yet, one derogatory word tossed in Aziraphale’s direction, and Crowley’s first inclination had been to scare those people out of their wits, to get them as far away from his employer and passenger as possible. _Protect Aziraphale_. He felt the urge rise up inside him again and looked into the rearview to check on the man for probably the twenty fifth time since they’d pulled away from the curb. 

He saw Aziraphale’s handsome brows knit temporarily as something negative or concerning seemed to have crossed his mind. He saw those hands on his thighs find one another and lace together, twisting gently from some inner worry. He watched the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest under his button down shirt and ever present bow tie. 

Crowley made sure to flick his eyes repeatedly back to the road so as not to kill them both in a crash, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes completely off his employer. Had Aziraphale’s hair always looked that soft and touchable? His lips too were quite nice as well. Not thick or full, but they had this slight pout, this cupid bow dip to them that was just fucking adorable.. Aziraphale had a nice mouth Crowley decided. He wondered what it would feel like to stick his tongue between those lips and taste the inside of that mouth. 

The startling twinge of sexual desire that lanced through him at the thought, took Crowley by surprise. He gripped the steering wheel a little harder and jerked his eyes back to the road, face heating, sucking in a sharp breath through his nostrils. 

_Oh shit._ Crowley thought. _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._ Not _now_ , not _here_. Not at _this_ job. He _needed_ _this job_. He couldn’t risk losing this spectacularly good position by doing something stupid. Something like maybe falling on his knees and pressing his face into Aziraphale’s soft belly. Definitely not something like grabbing the man by the lapels and kissing him the way he suddenly felt very compelled to do. 

If this had been an idle sex thing, if Crowley had simply wanted to shag Aziraphale, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Crowley was used to being around people he desired sexually but couldn’t have. He’d just wank a bit more often and learn to deal with it. Or, alternatively, if this job were a shitty one, one where he _wasn’t_ being paid handsomely to live in a spacious apartment on the beautiful property of a wealthy celebrity to do what he loved doing most in all the world… If it were a shitty job, or if it were just a sex thing, there’d be no problem.

But… this was a once in a lifetime, _fantastic_ job, and it was (Crowley was rapidly realizing as he struggled to keep his eyes from the rearview mirror) far _far_ more than just a sex thing with Aziraphale. 

Crowley realized that his brain, sometimes slow on the uptake, had been making little mental notes about Aziraphale’s personality and character and appearance in bite sized bits and pieces over the course of the past year that he’d known the man. He’d subconsciously catalogued all of Aziraphale’s soft looks, the shapes his mouth made when he was amused, or worried or lost in thought. Crowley had compiled a detailed list of the ways Aziraphale’s voice sounded, when he argued with Gabriel, when he was being sassy, when he was being solicitous. He heard the sigh of contentment as Aziraphale took a sip of tea from a takeaway cup and the way his voice got breathy and far away when he discussed a book he loved or a memorable meal he’d eaten recently. He heard Aziraphale’s exclamations of delight when he saw a particularly beautiful sunset out the window of the car on drives, and his careful tone when he greeted Crowley and asked him about his day. The way he always said thank you whenever they pulled up to a destination, and then again when they arrived back home. 

All of this Crowley saw, and it collected in a place in his brain that he began returning to more and more often, as if to visit a box of beloved keepsakes. Thinking about Aziraphale’s face, Aziraphale’s voice, the way Aziraphale’s smile lit up his whole body. 

Crowley realized he was falling in love, but only after it had already happened. The flush of protective rage he felt burning though him at the thoughtless words of a group of pissed strangers had acted as a struck match, setting his heart ablaze with the urge to hold and defend Aziraphale, to keep him safe. And more than just shelter him, Crowley wanted to _take him apart_. He wanted to untie all those knots that held Aziraphale so tightly together, to loosen him up and warm him and make him lose control of his faculties a little. To get him flushed and gasping. Crowley wanted to explore every inch of the other man’s skin with his hands and his lips. 

Fighting to bring his attention back to the road and away from intensely arousing imaginings of crawling up the length of Aziraphale’s body, exploring it with his tongue as he went, Crowley forced his eyes forward yet again. He knew only a small portion of his cheek under the lens that covered his right eye would be visible in the rearview mirror, and he worried that that narrow piece of real estate would be flushed bright red with what had just been going through his mind. 

Aziraphale appeared not to notice Crowley’s inner turmoil, and continued staring placidly out the window. A forty minute drive, and countless more furtive glances at Aziraphale in the rearview later, Crowley had pulled up to the house and waited patiently for Aziraphale to exit the car. As he’d done so, Aziraphale had turned back briefly, seeking out Crowley’s reflection in the mirror. 

“Thank you Crowley,” he’d said, very softly and very sincerely. “Thank you for everything,” he added before leaving the car and walking up to the house without looking back. They never spoke of the events of that evening again, but ever since that night, Crowley’s mind had been awash with thoughts of Aziraphale, and fears that he’d do something with his stupid mouth to upset the delicate ecosystem of the Archers’ household.

Now, pulling himself out of memories of that night, as Crowley loaded pallets of seedlings onto a shelf along one wall of the greenhouse he reflected back on the events of the day. When Aziraphale had struck up a conversation with him, and hadn’t let it die down, it had immediately served as a key that opened a doorway to more connection. Crowley hadn’t expected Aziraphale to invite himself to the greenhouse. He hadn’t expected to spend a silently thrilling afternoon teaching the man how to care for plants, or seeing him in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt either for that matter. 

And it had been so _easy._ Chatting away warmly with Aziraphale, showing him how to repot and clean and water the plants, watching his face change from determination to concentration to joy and back to determination. It had been glorious actually. 

And unfortunately, it was just another piece of evidence he could collect that proved that this could _work_. He and Aziraphale. Being together. If the stars aligned that was. If the world ended. If Aziraphale suddenly woke up to the fact that he was married to the world’s biggest wanker and simply divorced him before falling into Crowley’s arms. 

But unfortunately, that’s not how the world operated. And to be fair, everyone, Gabriel, Aziraphale _and_ Crowley benefited from Crowley not making a move. This was the perfect situation. Aziraphale had wealth, security and safety, and when it came down to it, Gabriel wasn’t all that bad. Crowley had seen them kissing sweetly a few times around the grounds. Had seen them embracing lazily in the pool with Aziraphale’s legs wrapped around Gabriel’s waist and his arms wrapped around Gabriel’s neck. Had seen it and flinched, looking away quickly, but in those few envy-laced seconds, he could tell his husband wasn’t particularly abusive. Just an arsehole, and Aziraphale had proven that he could stand up to Gabriel if need be. Gabriel’s behavior towards Aziraphale didn’t make Crowley happy exactly, but it wasn’t enough of an excuse to make a mess of the whole arrangement they had going.

As for Crowley, he got a stellar job, a place to live, and a fantastic addition to his resume that would catapult him to even greater job security further down the line when (and if) this job ended amicably in the next few years. Crowley wanted to go back to school to teach horticulture. He knew it was a long shot, being that he was already in his mid forties, but if he hustled he could earn a doctorate on top of his masters degree. He couldn’t risk angering Gabriel, tarnishing his reputation. The last thing he needed was being known in wealthy circles as an ambidextrous homewrecker. Able to ruin the marriages of both men _and_ women in a single bound! He’d still need to accumulate income, even if he went to school, and Gabriel was an incredibly powerful and influential man in communities where rich people wanted their plants cared for by a knowledgeable horticulturist. 

Crowley decided, for the thousandth time since he’d realized that his feelings towards Aziraphale went far deeper than idle attraction, that he’d just have to let that possibility go and keep himself on the straight and narrow path. Or rather, the _bi_ and narrow path, he thought with a smirk. 

This predictably sent his thoughts into an anxious tailspin. He’d decide to shut down his feelings for Aziraphale, and for perhaps an hour or two, he’d busy himself with pats on the back for how chaste and moral he was being. Then, he’d remember Aziraphale’s ice cream sundae smile when he saw a small dog on the street, or Aziraphale’s tiny pair of wire rimmed spectacles he put on and sometimes forgot to take off when he was working in the library. Or he’d think about how broad and strong Aziraphale’s shoulders looked in that fitted, antiquated coat he wore, and his resolve would start to crumble. 

And then it would devolve into wanking while thinking about Aziraphale watching him and saying things, things like _that’s it my dear, that’s it, you’re so good, you’re doing so good for me, do you think you can come for me?_

And at that point, some four or five hours after his resolve to leave Aziraphale alone, he’d be a shaking, gasping mess over the man (literally and figuratively). He’d stroked himself to the memory of Aziraphale’s eyes and hands and shoulders and belly, to the soft sound of his voice so many times now, that it was becoming ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous. What if the man didn’t even find him attractive? What if he was just _that nice_ to _everyone_? He thought he’d picked up on a careful sort of flirtation coming from Aziraphale, but then noticed that Aziraphale flirted the way a baby flirted. The way a dog flirted. He used those large, unusually beautiful eyes to cast shy glances at everyone. And people fell all over themselves to respond. And Crowley was no exception. 

Well, with the quite obvious exception that he carefully hid what Aziraphale’s eyes did to him behind a mask of cool, polite indifference and the shelter offered by his dark shades. It was his only defense mechanism against complete and utter meltdown. 

Part of what made Aziraphale so fatally charming was the obvious fact that he didn’t see himself as charming, or handsome, or sexy. Crowley could clearly see it in the way Aziraphale tugged self consciously at the bottom hem of his waistcoat. Or in the way he pulled on his bow tie, repeatedly adjusting its position, as if never satisfied that it was straight enough. He saw the way the other man ran nervous fingers through his hair and the uncomfortable twitch at the corner of his eye whenever Gabriel said something dickish. No, Aziraphale clearly had low self esteem. 

When Crowley was younger, this would have made Aziraphale a perfect partner. People with low self esteem were more likely to accept a homeless street rat for a boyfriend. But now that Crowley had worked on himself, had a good education and a wealth of knowledge under his belt, now that he loved himself a good deal more than that scared young man who’d scrounged to make ends meet some twenty years ago, he wanted more. He wanted to build Aziraphale up, to stroke his ego. He wanted to tell Aziraphale how beautiful he was, over and over until the man truly believed it. He longed to lavish Aziraphale with love and attention until, much like a starving plant, he would grow lush and healthy under Crowley’s loving care. 

Not that Crowley saw himself as a savior of any sort. He hated that condescending nonsense, that his love and _only_ his love could make an insecure partner truly recognize their potential. He wanted Aziraphale to love himself regardless of the circumstances, even if it wasn’t Crowley who helped to bring it about. 

Crowley finished up his last few tasks for the day and then washed his hands thoroughly in the sink and went up to his apartment to sort out supper. It would be a long night. He just knew it. First, he’d have to argue with himself for a while over whether or not it would be healthy to incorporate these new images of Aziraphale into his wank rotation. He’d waste time telling himself it was perverted and pathetic, then he’d end up doing it anyway, imagining the way the man’s legs looked in the soft black fabric of his trackies. The way his chest and belly had been accented differently in the thin, cotton material of his t-shirt. He’d looked so _casual_ , so _touchable,_ and it would be easy for Crowley to imagine him dressed like that during a lazy Sunday afternoon. One where they’d watch telly together on Crowley’s sofa, and then Crowley would crawl over to Aziraphale and insinuate himself between the man’s knees and pull those tracksuit bottoms down and… 

And then, after he’d lost the battle and stroked himself off to these new images, fresh and precious and already getting filed away for vigorous future use, he’d toss and turn a while, unable to sleep from the anxiety and the guilt. 

Crowley was a mess. But what else was new? 


	5. Chapter 5

The entirety of the rest of that week, Aziraphale thought over and over about stopping by the greenhouse again to visit Crowley. And time and time again, he squashed the urge and didn’t go. The Bradfords and the Colberts had headed home, spilling extravagant praise for Gabriel’s skill as a relationship counselor as they went, and so he and his husband were once again alone together. At least for a few days, until Gabriel took off for another trip, or scheduled another retreat. 

Aziraphale made it his mission to get Gabriel to have sex with him, and after a couple of tentative tries with verbal hints and meaningful looks, he’d given up and simply climbed on top of the man one morning a couple of days after his afternoon with Crowley. Gabriel had seemed pleased with Aziraphale’s dedication to getting him naked and they’d had quite a good shag. Aziraphale, laying next to Gabriel afterwards as his husband drifted off to sleep, tried not to admit to himself how often he’d thought of Crowley during sex with his husband. He reassured himself that this was fine because he was almost certain Gabriel wasn’t thinking about Aziraphale either. Probably he was imagining one of those gorgeous young men with the slender hips and wide, doe eyes that mooned over Gabriel on twitter and tumblr and who cued up to get a look at him on the pavement outside his television appearances. 

This was fine with Aziraphale. One did what one had to to enjoy sex. Even if that meant imagining a flame haired horticulturist writhing under his mouth, instead of who he was actually in bed with. Still, even with all of the complex dysfunction of their marriage and their sex life, it had felt good to release some of that tension. And having sex with Gabriel was never a hardship. Regardless of who he was thinking of, the man’s body hadn’t aged a day in twenty years, and he was a fantastic lover. 

In the week after his visit to the greenhouse, he also started writing poetry again. He loved writing, and adored poetry, and he knew that his work was fairly good. Perhaps not publishable good, but not bad. And, embarrassingly enough, he found himself writing quite a bit of ridiculously emotional love poetry. He rationalized the love poems (which featured more than a few references to red hair and amber eyes and pale skin) by telling himself he needed an outlet for his intense, unrequited feelings. If he wrote about his longing for Crowley, and if he made it vague enough so as not to arouse too much suspicion, he’d be able to release some of the romantic and sexual tension he seemed to be living under most of the time lately.

Of course, he’d been spectacularly wrong. The writing only brought Crowley to mind more and more often. It wasn’t an outlet to release tension. It was instead like a bicycle pump, or a blood pressure cuff, making things more acute, building more pressure. 

_Out in the garden, curled and coiled_

_Black on onyx on coal on raven feather on black again, belly red, protecting the apple tree_

_Keep me from it. The only knowledge I ever truly wanted,_

_To taste you, to taste that sweet white flesh, to break that red patent leather skin and sink greedy teeth into the core of you_

_Flame red licks across my wasted fingertips when I reach to touch_

_When I miss, and am burned instead, and fall away_

_Amber pools to cool my burning souls_

_Alabaster spread before me like snow drifts, pulled to mounds of narrow hip and shoulder by restless winds._

_I dare not sully the unbroken white with messy boot prints, to stomp across that virgin expanse._

_I dare not catch those flames between my fingers_

_For touching once, I am burned forever_

_Fingers useless, burned_

_Heart useless and burned_

_Feet, drowned and sodden_

_I reach for you and miss, I reach for flames and catch only empty, heated air_

_I reach for you and fall through you and fall, and fall, and fall_

_  
  
_

Writing about Crowley was at least a small point of connection, one sided and not very satisfying. He could never show Crowley the poems. Couldn’t ask for his opinion. Maybe one day, he’d gather them up and try to publish them. use his family name, Fell so as to avoid a free ride by being the husband of a celebrity. 

With the rest of his spare time, of which there was plenty, he reached out to a few new contacts, trying to hunt down a first edition of O’Henry’s The Gift of the Magi. He’d always loved the tragic tale of love, wherein the wife sells her long hair to buy her husband a new chain for his pocket watch, and he sells his precious gold pocket watch to buy her tortoise shell combs for her hair. 

He was hot on the trail of purchasing a beautifully maintained copy, and for only five hundred pounds! He also took some time to carefully mend the binding on his 1923 copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, which had started to come apart a bit. He spent a quiet afternoon at his work desk in a corner of the library, with some wood glue and a brush. Painstakingly healing scuffs and tears and bringing the book back to a sturdier condition, with the help of a bright light and a large, mounted magnifying glass to see the minute tears in clearer detail. 

He still had his weekly calls with Sandalphon, who updated him on his parent’s health (for they were now quite elderly), and the upkeep of the shop. Sandalphon deposited monthly checks into Aziraphale’s personal bank account for his share of the proceeds from the shop, and the two brothers often spent a fruitful, if stiff hour or two on a skype call to iron out any questions about the running of the shop or to troubleshoot any issues. The roof had started to leak one month, and during another call, late last year, Sandalphon had informed him that a gentleman had come around, pestering him repeatedly about purchasing a volume of poetry that Aziraphale flat out refused to allow his brother let go of. He’d given Sandalphon the name of his preferred roofer, and had provided him with tips for how to get the stubborn gentleman to leave and not come back, (it involved casual mentions of getting the police involved). 

Aziraphale’s parents never asked about him. They never called him. They had ceased to acknowledge him as their son from the moment he’d announced his relationship and marriage to Gabriel. Aziraphale’s heart hurt over this, but it had been expected. His parents would never accept his lifestyle, and since he couldn’t imagine giving up sex with men, or (God forbid) forcing himself to marry a woman and trying to have children, he’d be forever on the outs with them. 

Now, bent over the tattered binding of his aging copy of Hamlet, Aziraphale let his mind wander (yet again) to Crowley and the greenhouse. It had been almost a week since they’d seen one another, outside a polite wave at a distance when passing on the grounds, and Aziraphale was starting to itch. 

He realized he’d been hiding from Crowley, forestalling asking to be driven anywhere to avoid speaking to the man. Why? Well, the answer was complex. He longed to spend more time with Crowley, but hated hiding it from Gabriel. He hated feeling sneaky and dishonest by omission. He knew that seeing Crowley socially again would only accomplish two things. The first being an exponential increase in his already razor sharp pining for the man, and the second being his feelings of guilt over doing something so clearly not OK with his husband. 

What else could more time spent around his handsome gardener actually do for Aziraphale? Other than provide him with increasingly vivid mental images to wank to? Aside from making his heart hurt and his belly tense up?

His weekly book club meeting was fast approaching, and he’d need to get a ride with Crowley, or stay home. Staying home was out of the question. He loved the club meetings, and the sassy group of women who gathered every week to discuss books and chat, were simply too much fun to miss. The group members would draw from a hat every week to determine which people would bring food and drink for the next week, and many an enjoyable hour had been spent, eating snacks, drinking far too much wine and gushing over (or sarcastically mocking) the books they’d decided to read.

This week was Aziraphale’s turn to provide two bottles of wine for the festivities. He always fussed overly much about which wine would pair well with any of the snacks brought by other members, but the ladies seemed not to care. They loved to drink for the pure joy of getting tipsy and didn’t mind if red wine didn’t go well with vanilla frosted cookies or chicken potstickers. 

He _had_ to go. There was no getting out of it, and on top of that, he _wanted_ to go. So, as tuesday afternoon rolled around, he bagged up his two bottles of wine (a chardonnay and a pinot noir just to be safe,) and walked over to Crowley’s apartment door on the side of the garage. He rang the doorbell, like he always did when he managed to beat Crowley out to the car, instead of the other way around. 

He waited with his heart racing, drying his nervously damp palms on his pant legs every few seconds until he heard the telltale thump-thump-thump of Crowley’s booted feet on the stairs down to the front door. Aziraphale stood back, wanting to give the man plenty of room, wanting to look less pathetically eager than he was to see Crowley again. 

And then the door was swinging open and Crowley’s face appeared, along with the rest of him, and _oh sweet jesus, he’d taken his shades off._ The sight of Crowley’s large, soft, pale brown eyes hit Aziraphale like a punch to the chest. He may have even stumbled backward a step or two. He _might have,_ (and this was something he wasn’t proud of), he just might have gasped a bit as well.

“Hello Crowley!” he yelped, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you with your shades off. Almost didn’t recognize you!” 

“Yep,” Crowley nodded, “It’s overcast today, and I’ve got this painful cut behind my ear from a mishap in the greenhouse, so I figured, why not leave them in my pocket this time?” He patted the aforementioned pocket, and Aziraphale could see the outline of the sunglasses resting inside the material of his shirt under his black jacket. Folded up and hidden, and therefore unlikely to obscure Aziraphale’s view of the man’s stunning eyes, at least for the time being. Aziraphale inwardly sighed with relief. 

His relief was short lived however, for he quickly realized that seeing Crowley’s eyes wasn’t helping his state of mind in the slightest. He knew by the superheated feel of his face that he was blushing furiously. Crowley, bless him, didn’t give any indication that he noticed Aziraphale’s minor heart attack and smoothly swept past him and into the garage to fetch the car, leaving Aziraphale to stand and wait for him and valiantly struggle to get his body back under his conscious control. 

Crowley pulled the car out into the drive and waited for Aziraphale and his wine to climb into the back seat, then they were off. 

“How’ve you been?” Aziraphale asked, feeling retroactive shame over avoiding the man all week. 

“Oh, fine. Been working hard to get a new group of azaleas to feel at home. Such picky things they are. Other than that, I went to town to the Italian place you mentioned last time we spoke.”

“You did?” Aziraphale didn’t know why the fact that Crowley had gone to a restaurant he’d recommended made his chest warm with such pleasure. Probably because he was a disgraceful mess over the man. “How did you like it?” he asked eagerly.

“It was fantastic!” Crowley enthused and Aziraphale tried to fight the massive smile that made its way across his face upon hearing that Crowley had enjoyed the food. 

“What did you get?” 

“The arancini and the carbonera. Their portion sizes are massive! I ate the leftovers for the past two days. And yeah, it was delicious. Thanks for the recommendation.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Aziraphale replied. “I love fine foods, but I avoid places that charge a lot and only give you those fiddly little portions. It’s quite frankly pretentious and condescending, so I always recommend places that serve heaping plates.” The warm glow in his chest was spreading up his neck and into his face, furthered along on its journey by the rare sight of Crowley’s lovely amber eye in the rearview mirror, and the fact that it kept flicking up to meet his own.

“That’s a standard I can respect,” Crowley said, with a smile in his voice. “Looking forward to your book club meeting?” he asked.

“Oh yes! It’s ever so much fun. The ladies at the meeting are full of tawdry jokes and town gossip and we get quite soused and talk about books.”

“Sounds great,” Crowley replied through a soft chuckle, “I’m a bit envious.”

“You should come with me!” The words were out of Aziraphale’s mouth before he could stop them. 

“Oh, I-”

Aziraphale knew he’d misspoken, gone a bit too far, but he couldn’t very well backpedal now. Instead, he chose to double down. “It wouldn’t be a problem. The ladies are very welcoming to new folks. It’s more really just an excuse to drink wine and eat snacks.”

“Well, that… that could be…nice,” Crowley responded, cautiously, probably second guessing his employer’s sanity. 

“I hate the idea of you having to simply drive around town or go somewhere else while you wait for me to finish up,” Aziraphale continued, warming to the idea with the manic glee of someone who knew he was making a near fatal mistake, but would make it anyway, because it fulfilled some desperate need. “And besides,” he added. “There will be single ladies there… Perhaps you might meet someone special?” He hated bringing up the concept of Crolwey finding someone (else) to have sex with, but he wanted, _needed_ more time in the man’s company, and really didn’t like the idea of him having to wait around somewhere while Aziraphale had the time of his life with a group of irreverent literature fans. 

“I, well, I suppose…” Crowley still hesitated, and it suddenly struck Aziraphale that maybe he didn’t actually have a problem with spending two hours in Poughkeepsie on a Tuesday evening. Tuesdays weren’t necessarily great nights to live it up at the bar, but perhaps Crowley already had a special friend he saw when he had down time between dropping Aziraphale off and picking him up? The thought was highly sobering and he felt a wave of mortification wash through him, leaving shadows of embarrassment and apprehension in its wake.

Crowley was not _his_ to command, not _his_ to request more time from. He was an _employee_ , who probably wasn’t at all interested in spending more time with his employer, an employer who was clearly as gay as a tree full of monkeys high on nitrus oxide. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he began. “It isn’t my place to ask you to come to a book club meeting. You probably have other things to do, and it’s not-”

“I’d love to,” Crowley replied, effectively cutting off Aziraphale’s rushed apologies. 

“You would?” 

“Yeah. A fun group of women getting drunk and talking about books? How could I pass that up?”

Aziraphale breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Oh good! I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. And if you don’t, you can always let me know and I shan’t pressure you to attend again.” 

“Hey, you only live once,” Crowley said, his eye in the mirror crinkling with amusement. 

Neither of them brought up the fact that Crowley shouldn’t be spending personal time with Aziraphale and his friends. Neither of them brought up how unprofessional and uncomfortable this _should_ have been. 

After another forty five minutes or so of pleasant conversation, they pulled up to the host’s house and found a parking space only a few spots down. “What book have you been discussing?” Crowley asked Aziraphale as they departed the car. Aziraphale noted that Crowley removed his black chauffeur jacket and tossed it into the front seat before rolling up the sleeves of his black, button down shirt, exposing his wiry forearms. Aziraphale swallowed loudly.

“ _Pride and Prejudice_. Have you read it?”

“I have!” Crowley’s broad grin and his gleaming amber eyes twinkling with mirth could very well have been the most beautiful sight Aziraphale had ever seen. “I read it when an ex of mine insisted on it. She was obsessed with those classic, period romances, and honestly, I only started reading it at first to have a better chance of getting her to like me. But… It stuck with me. I really enjoyed it.”

“Oh, how fortuitous!” Aziraphale exclaimed, only slightly pained in a private way by yet another reminder that Crowley was straight as an arrow. 

“Yeah, I’ll fit in far better now,” he smiled wider. Aziraphale had to turn away and walk towards the house.

“Jeanette is the hostess, and her husband’s name is Christopher.” he explained as they walked up to the front door. “I’ll introduce you to everyone.”  
  
“Sure they won’t mind me crashing the party?” Crowley asked. 

“Not at all. The ladies would never miss a chance to spend time with a handsome new man.”

“Handsome am I?” Crowley asked, teasing Aziraphale gently, and Aziraphale cleared his throat and felt his skin grow hot and knocked on the door to cover for the fact that he was probably bright pink. 

It swung open almost immediately and Jeanette was beaming at them from the doorway. “Aziraphale!” she screeched happily and pulled him into a fierce embrace. “So good to see you sweetheart! And who is this?” She cast a curious glance over his shoulder where Crowley was waiting patiently to be introduced.

“This is a friend of mine,” he said, feeling a little awkward over telling such a blatant lie about his driver. “His name is Crowley.”

“Well, friend Crowley, very nice to meet you!” she exclaimed warmly and reached out a hand to give Crowley’s a firm shake. “Come on in.”

Aziraphale took a deep, bracing breath and followed her inside with Crowley on his heels.


	6. Chapter 6

_Well,_ thought Crowley, _this is new._

At first, when Aziraphale had invited him to join the book club meeting, he’d wanted to jump at the opportunity. It sounded like loads of fun, and he’d been a bit reclusive lately, hadn’t seen Aziraphale since their little lesson in the greenhouse. But immediately on the heels of his pleasure over being invited, was a stab of apprehension over what this could _mean._

On the one hand, it wasn’t professional _or_ appropriate for him to attend social events with an _employer_ , and even worse for him to do so with his _married_ employer _._ On the other hand though, Aziraphale was surely aware of the somewhat illicit nature of the invitation and had _invited him anyway_. That said something didn’t it? That Aziraphale enjoyed his company, and probably wanted more of it?

He’d accepted because he couldn’t _not_ accept. Because he’d cut his own tongue out before he turned Aziraphale down for a chance to spend an enjoyable evening watching the man laugh and smile in pleasure. And getting to know a group of sassy women who honestly sounded like they’d be a blast, was a great draw as well. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t more than a little lonely out in Archer manor, and he’d been horribly lax with trying to create a social life of his own in Athena proper, or any of the surrounding towns. His days off had been spent mostly watching TV or going on a few hikes in the woods..

Following Aziraphale into the house was a bit nerve wracking. Especially when he was introduced as Aziraphale’s ‘friend’. They _weren’t_ friends. Clearly. But perhaps the book club ladies would more easily understand Aziraphale bringing a _friend_ to an event. Admitting the truth, that Crowley was Aziraphale’s employee would have been awkward. 

They entered the crowded kitchen and several pairs of eyes turned in their direction simultaneously. 

“Hi everyone! Meet Aziraphale’s friend Crowley!” Jeannette announced (apparently, she had a flair for the dramatic). Several hands shot up and fluttered in the air to wave at him, and a chorus of women’s voices called out “Hi Crowley!” with a flirtatious lilt that made him grin.

Aziraphale went around making introductions. There was Jen, the 32 year old, recently divorced CPA with a mischievous glint in her eyes, Eileen, the 64 year old grandmother of five who ran a daycare company, Christina, the resident baby, being that she was only 23. She was an attractive blond, a server at a local restaurant, and she clearly eyed Crowley up and down hungrily when he walked in, which Crowley found interesting. 

Rose was a married, 38 year old mother of three and a part time massage therapist, part time uber driver, and Tanya, a 70 year old retired costume designer and a transplant from LA. Jeannette’s husband Chris wandered over to shake Crowley’s hand and Crowley nodded and smiled and shook hands all around. 

Soon they were seated around the large, round, dining room table, with bowls of snacks and wine glasses. Aziraphale and Jen (the other person tasked with bringing wine) uncorked their bottles and everyone busied themselves with pouring for a few moments.

Aziraphale leaned over, under the cover of the hustle and bustle of everyone getting settled and whispered to Crowley, causing chills to tingle all the way down Crowley’s spine as the man’s warm breath brushed against the delicate hairs inside the shell of his ear. “ _I had to introduce you as a friend. I’m sorry about that. I don’t want them thinking that I have a driver. I don’t want people thinking I’m some sort of spoiled debutant_.” 

Crowley nodded, pulling back to look Aziraphale in the eye, “I get you,” he reassured him out loud. And he _did_ get it. He had no idea who Aziraphale had told these people he was, or where he came from, but having a _driver_ , rather than having his husband or a friend drive him over… or simply spending a fortune on Uber or Lyft once a week… that would clearly look like an extravagance. Crowley had grown up dirt poor, and he knew well how cruel people with less could be towards people with money. Resentment and envy could excuse a lot of bad behavior, and if Aziraphale wanted to avoid judgment by hiding the fact that he had a chauffeur, then that was fine by Crowley.

The conversation started up lively from the get go, with Jeannett turning to Crowley and asking point blank if he were seeing anyone. 

Crowley leaned back and gave her an impressed look before shaking his head, saying “Nope. Not at the moment.”

“You don’t say...” cooed Jen, the CPA. 

“Calm down Jen,” said Jeannette, shooting her a mock warning glance, and Jen stuck her tongue out in response.

“And what do you do for a living Mr. Crowley?” This from Eileen. 

“It’s just Crowley actually, and I’m a horticulturist,” Crowley replied with a grin and watched as the gathered women tried to decide how cool or interesting that was. 

“Oh wow! That’s awesome!” chirped Christina with a broad smile. Crowley smirked inwardly. She was clearly interested if she thought him being a horticulturist was ‘awesome’.

“And what does that entail?” Jeannette piped up, leaning towards Crowley with a look of intent interest on her face. 

Crowley, realizing that talking too much about his job might give away the fact that he worked to maintain the massive greenhouse on the property of Aziraphale’s rich and famous husband, decided to deflect. “Oh, this and that, what I’d be more interested to hear about though, is what your book club meetings entail. Aziraphale loves coming to these, so I got curious and asked if I could come along.”

“Oh, we have a lot of fun!” chirped Christina again. “We read a book, one every two weeks and we discuss it in two parts. We’d do a book a week, but not all of us are fast readers… like me for example,” she smiled charmingly and brushed a lock of blond hair behind her ear, glancing flirtatiously at Crowley. _If only I were twenty years younger and not a ridiculous mess over my employer’s husband_ thought Crowley wistfully as he grinned back at her.

“And we generally get drunk and make fools of ourselves,” added Jen with a wink.

“Sounds like a good time to me!” Crowley exclaimed, raising his wine glass. He was greeted with an explosion of giggles. Looking cautiously sideways at Aziraphale revealed a large, warm smile on the man’s face. Good. That was good. He was glad Aziraphale wasn’t the type to hog attention. That he could enjoy Crowley’s enjoyment of his friends. That was a fantastic sign. 

_A fantastic sign of what?_ He silently chided himself. _That he’d make a great boyfriend? Be honest with yourself Crowley. You’re continually sizing him up as a potential partner. Quit it!_

Eventually, after a few more jokes and some more polite small talk, the group settled in to discuss Pride and Prejudice. 

“What does everyone think of the first half of the book? We read up to Darcy’s botched proposal, so… what are we thinking about all that?” Asked Eileen, raising a glass of white wine to her lips and looking expectantly over the rim of it at the rest of the club members. 

“Darcy’s proposal?” Rose said, “In my opinion, it was pretty terrible. Like, it was the ultimate backhanded compliment. ‘Hey you, I love you, even though your family is total trash.” 

Some of the ladies nodded in agreement. 

“I don’t know,” said Jen, “It seemed pretty romantic to me. We all know Darcy is a big pile of anxiety, and he was all sorts of confused by his feelings for Elizabeth. And it was the best he could do for being such a massive dork.” 

“I’m not sure of what you look for in a man,” replied Jeannette, “but, ‘I’m willing to marry you even though your family sucks and I’m embarrassed by being seen with you in public’, isn’t on my list of good qualities.” 

This earned giggles all around. 

“I also thought it was romantic,” piped up Aziraphale, causing Crowley to turn to look at him while he spoke. “He’s distraught. He’s torn inside, because let's face it, Elizabeth’s younger sisters are quite obnoxious and immature, and her mother is sort of embarrassingly hysterical. And yes, Darcy is as Jen said, ‘a big pile of anxiety’, but I myself am a big pile of anxiety, and so I have first hand knowledge of how tough it is to expose oneself emotionally.” 

Everyone nodded silently at that, except for Crowley, who was taking vigorous mental notes. 

“Have you read the book Crowley?” Christina asked.

“I have in fact. Though it was many years ago,” Crowley replied. “You’re talking about that condescending proposal Darcy makes yes? I seem to remember thinking he was a right twat for saying that to Elizabeth.” This was met with shrieks of laughter from a couple of the ladies. 

“I don’t know,” said Chris, Jeannette’s husband. “Things were different back then. Lets not forget, the Bennetts weren’t just obnoxious. They were also poor, and a person’s yearly income was _the_ most important factor in who they married. Darcy was loaded, but his social standing would probably be pretty compromised if he married into a family that was ridiculous _and_ poor.”

More thoughtful nods all around.

Christine tentatively raised her hand as if in class. “Am I the only one who thinks the Bennetts are awesome?” she asked.

“No! Of course not!” Rose replied. “We all love the Bennetts. They’re flawed and human and they remind us of our own nutty family members. At least, they remind _me_ of _mine_.”

“But,” cut in Jeannette, “for the time period, they were a little crass and uncultured. They didn’t go over well in some circles where how you dressed and behaved and how much money you had was super important. I still think Darcy was a tool for saying all that to Elizabeth though. There are nicer ways to tell a girl that you can’t stand your in-laws.” 

“Ahem,” cut in Chris, “there isn’t actually any nice way to tell a girl you don’t like your in laws. I speak from experience.” This awarded him a playful slap on the arm and a snort from his wife.

“But think about it,” joined in Aziraphale again, “he’s had very little practice talking to women, especially women he’s in love with. He’s such a cantankerous old fuddy duddy. He’s probably the least capable person to express how he feels in an appropriate manner. He _tried_ though, he really thought he was speaking plainly and making his feelings known. Instead of… well… as you Americans say, ‘pissing her off.’” 

More giggles from the club members. Crowley couldn’t help but smile fondly at Aziraphale for his unique outlook and his charming vocabulary. Aziraphale met his gaze for just a moment and a warm spark seemed to pass between them, before the blond man jerked his eyes away and back down to his wine glass, his cheeks coloring. 

_Is he flirting?_ Crowley wondered, a touch desperately. He himself hadn’t had much to drink, because he’d be driving Aziraphale home, but he could tell Aziraphale was already a bit tipsy. Perhaps that was the reason for the soft eye contact. It was difficult to tell. Especially from inside Crowley’s tangled brain. 

The conversation moved on eventually to the relationship between Elizabeth and her father and how touching it was, in a stilted nineteenth century type of way. And then to deconstruct the silly behavior of Mary, Catherine and the princess of ridiculousness, Lydia. And then on to discuss the lovely sisterly relationship between Elizabeth and sweet, sad Jane Bennett. 

“Can you believe they used to have to marry off the eldest first?” exclaimed Jen. “And if your older sister didn’t get hitched, you weren’t allowed to marry at all?? That sucks balls.” 

“Please my dear,” injected Aziraphale, slurring gently after two glasses of red, “do not cast aspersions upon the time honored skill of sucking balls.” 

Everyone exploded in shrieks of laughter and Aziraphale was treated to a series of slaps on the back from Jen, who was seated to his left. Crowley felt his face catch fire and hid his intense blushing behind the rim of his own wine glass. _That_ was a mental image that would likely take center stage for a while. 

This randy, explicit, fun side of Aziraphale was one he’d never seen before. He’d always thought of the man as being shy. Soft spoken. Charming yet proper. But tonight, Aziraphale had proven without a doubt that he could let his hair down and joke along with the rest of the book club members. Crowley loved it. He wanted to see how sassy and irreverent Aziraphale could get, but he couldn’t be the one to lead him there. He had no claim over Aziraphale. No right to want as much of him as he did. His mood dipped a little as he considered that their relationship was unlikely to deepen much further. 

The evening continued with much laughter and even more drinking. By the time everyone decided it was high time to head home, it was close to 11pm and the tablecloth was littered with fragments of chocolate covered pretzels, crumbs of potato crisps and the red, semi-circular stains of the bottoms of multiple wine glasses. Aziraphale stopped drinking after two glasses of wine, though he did continue to make hilarious comments (including a nickname for Darcy, ‘ _Mr. Cranky Pants McSexyface’)_ that almost made Rose choke on her pretzel.

They made their way out the door, amid multiple hugs to them both, and were soon standing together on the street while Aziraphale straightened his coat and bowtie. “Did you enjoy the meeting?” he asked Crowley, looking down at where his hands were gently tugging the hem of his waistcoat into place.

“I loved it!” Crowley exclaimed. “They’re just as much fun as you told me they would be.”

“Oh good!” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone all shiny with glee as he smiled back at Crowley, and Crowley stomped down the almost overwhelming urge to grab him by the lapels and pull him into a kiss. “I’m ever so glad you had fun. You’re welcome to come back with me next week.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” Crowley replied hesitantly, flinching when he saw Aziraphale’s face drop upon hearing his words. “Listen, Aziraphale,” he began. No point in dragging this out was there? What was Crowley supposed to do? Keep going to book club meetings with Aziraphale? Fall even more deeply in love than he was already? Risk his job and his reputation on an (admittedly) enjoyable social event that could only lead to more pain for Crowley, and probably some trouble for Aziraphale if Gabriel found out. “I had a lovely time tonight,” he continued, bracing himself for what he had to say next. “But, it’s… well I’m sure your husband wouldn’t be so happy about me attending events with you. It’s not really... my place… is all.”

He watched as Aziraphale’s face fell further, but he also saw that the other man understood what he was saying. “Yes. You’re right. I shouldn’t have invited you in the first place,” Aziraphale replied with a soft, low tone to his voice, dark blond lashes brushing the tops of pink cheeks in the neon glow of a nearby streetlight as he looked down at his hands. 

“No! No, you were fine inviting me. I’m a big boy. I can make my own decisions. And as a one time thing, it was fantastic. But, I’d hate to impose, and I’d hate to make things complicated for you and Gabriel. He… forgive me for saying this, but he… he looks like the jealous type?”

Aziraphale nodded. “You’re quite correct,” he replied. “He’s pretty easily threatened. I’m certain he only hired you because you’re straight.”

_Right._ Crowley remembered with a start. _Right, they think I’m straight._ Well, no point in enlightening Aziraphale now, but he couldn’t very well lie, so he simply ignored the statement and forged onward with what he’d been trying to say. “I’ve gotten into a lot of trouble where jealous spouses are concerned,” he continued. “I’m a faithful guy, one hundred percent monogamous, and I don’t flirt with my friends, or my friend’s partners. But every once in a while, someone gets it into their head that I’m a threat, and well, I end up suffering for it. Or the person with the jealous partner does. I’d hate to make things uncomfortable between you and your husband… and I don’t mean to flatter myself. I just… I just… want to keep things on the level.”

“No, I understand,” Aziraphale looked at him with sad eyes and Crowley wanted to take it all back, to promise to come to every book club meeting, to go anywhere with Aziraphale. 

“I have to admit that I’ve gotten a bit lonely, out here in the woods,” Aziraphale continued. “I’m used to London, to Soho, where my bookshop is. And I haven’t done a good job of making friends. And, clearly, I’m expecting _you_ to be a friend, and that’s not fair. You’re mine and Gabriel’s employee, and I overstepped a boundary. I'm very sorry.” He turned and started to walk toward the car.

Crowley panicked and went after him, caught up with him and rushed to explain. “Aziraphale! It’s OK. Really it is. You didn’t cross any boundaries,” Aziraphale stopped walking and turned to face Crowley, still keeping his eyes trained on pavement, but listening. “I...I’d be honored to be your friend,” Crowley said, knowing he had just stepped off of a steep proverbial ledge, started a long plummet that would probably end with him dashed against a rather sharp group of rocks, very far below him. 

“Y-you would?” the hope in Aziraphale’s voice nearly killed Crowley. 

“Yeah. Of course! You’re a fantastic person. Fun, smart, hilarious. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with you? And honestly, I feel like I’m more Gabriel’s employee than I am yours. He signs the checks right?”

“That he does,” Aziraphale replied, his eyes rising to meet Crowley’s with a glint of hopeful joy echoing in their blue-gray depths. Crowley struggled for a moment to breath. “I don’t pay for anything really,” Aziraphale admitted, “unless it’s wine for the book club, or the purchase of new first editions. All the staff are paid by Gabriel directly.”

“Yeah, so… I think it’s fine if we… I don’t know, chat more often. I could keep showing you around the greenhouse if you’d like. I just wanted to check in with you about you and Gabriel’s comfort level. And… I think going to parties together would probably be pushing it, no?”

“Yes, you’re right,” Aziraphale relented with a soft sigh. “It was fun, but there’s really no way Gabriel would be comfortable with that. Thanks for the reality check my dear,” he said, placing a hand on Crowley’s elbow, the heat of which immediately burned through the fabric and made the skin underneath tingle with sparks of excitement. 

Once Crowley was able to shake off the startling pleasure of feeling Aziraphale’s casual touch to his arm, he nodded. “I’m glad we understand each other. I’d hate it if I caused you any trouble in your marriage, but… I _do_ really like spending time with you.”

“I like spending time with you too,” Aziraphale’s gentle smile warmed Crowley’s heart in a way that was far from platonic. 

“Alright then, shall we head home?” he said, to cover for the fact that his knees were turning to jelly under the onslaught of Aziraphale’s happy gaze. 

“Yes sir!” Chirped Aziraphale, and obediently slipped into the back seat. “I think,” he paused before shutting the door, and Crowley leaned down to hear him better. “I think I should continue to ride back here. Is that OK?”

“Oh yeah. That’s fine. That way you’ll be spared a front row seat to how many traffic laws I break while driving you around,” he replied with a smirk. Aziraphale chuckled before pulling the door shut. 

The ride home was a very enjoyable one. They chatted so much more easily now that the elephant in the room had been brought up and discussed. _Well_ Thought Crowley. _At least_ one _elephant._ What with Crowley secretly being attracted to men, and Gabriel being an utter twat (a fact that Crowley couldn’t help but believe that Aziraphale had noticed. _He’d_ been married to the prat for twenty years, hadn’t he?), and what with Crowley being madly in love with Aziraphale… It was a veritable circus of elephants, wandering around in the room whenever Crowley and Aziraphale were alone together. All of that would have to remain undiscussed. There was only so far honesty would go to help this situation. And far more likely, it would harm it. 

By the time Crowley pulled up to the house, he and Aziraphale had been talking animatedly for almost an hour straight. Aziraphale had told Crowley all about his life back in Soho, about Anathema and Dierdre and Sandalphon and his parents. He’d told him of how his mum and da had disowned him once they’d found out he was gay, and how Azirpahale had followed Gabriel here to support him working on his career. Crowley had kept his mouth shut about the unfairness of that. It had been Aziraphale’s decision after all.

Crowley, in exchange, had told Aziraphale about his rough upbringing, his life on the streets (leaving the hustling out of it of course) and how he’d become obsessed with horticulture. He told Aziraphale how his “close friend” Will had made it all possible, but carefully avoided any mentions of him being romantically involved with Will. Aziraphale made soft, interested noises as he listened to Crowley speak, and when Crowley talked about Will passing away from AIDS related pneumonia, he’d seemed genuinely saddened to hear it. 

It was strange to feed Aziraphale this truncated, edited version of his past, but he couldn’t very well tell the truth. He couldn’t tell Aziraphale he liked men, that he’d had long term relationships with men. He couldn’t bear to have that sort of tension out there between them. Things were tense enough, what with a burgeoning friendship on the horizon. And what if Aziraphale unthinkingly told his husband that Crowley was bisexual? Crowley was certain that would only spell trouble for both of them. But, where Aziraphale could possibly expect a row or two, or a few nights on the couch for spending time with a bisexual man who Gabriel disliked or envied, Crowley could have his career seriously threatened. Gabriel looked like a man who fought dirty. He looked power hungry and self centered and ruthless to Crowley’s rather finely tuned senses. He did _not_ want to get on the man’s bad side. 

They said good night and parted ways, but not before Aziraphale had given Crowley the softest, sweetest smile, and Crowley had smiled back drunkenly, as if he’d had far more than half a glass of wine. Afterwards, Crowley wandered back to his apartment as if he were floating on air. He climbed the stairs and opened the door, and even got so far as changing into the soft t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms he slept in, before the anxiety took hold. 

_What had he done?_ Telling Aziraphale he wanted to be his friend. Chatting warmly with him all the way home… _going to a fucking book club meeting with him._ It felt so much like the beginning of a courtship that Crowley had to struggle repeatedly over the course of the evening to remember that they weren’t on a date. 

The chemistry between them was _fucking electric_ . Aziraphale _had_ to feel it too hadn't he? Those soft smiles, that glint of joy in his eyes when Crowley had accepted his invitation, the nonstop, effortless conversation between them. Even taking into account the fact that Aziraphale thought Crowley was straight, he was still attracted. Crowley could _taste it,_ how much Aziraphale wanted him. It was palpable. Crowley had no idea if it went beyond sexual attraction for the soft spoken blond man, but just the fact that he could see the desire in Aziraphale’s eyes, it was already doing his head in. 

And poor Aziraphale. Stuck thinking Crowley couldn’t ever want him back. Thinking that Crowley was just eye candy, that Crowley could never be attracted to another man. Meanwhile, Crowley was pulling himself off on a nightly basis with Aziraphale’s name on his lips. 

What a fucking mess. 

He’d dug himself in over his head. And what was worse, he had no desire to dig himself back out again. He’d hang around and pine and keep his feelings secret for as long as it took to hang onto this job and keep Aziraphale as a friend. What could be gained from confessing anyway? On the pros side, he’d probably get to spend a night with Aziraphale… maybe have a secret affair for a while. But the truth would come out. It always did, and then, on the cons side, Aziraphale’s marriage, his security and safety would be destroyed, would be over. And so would Crowley’s career opportunities on the eastern seaboard. 

And if they didn’t end up getting together? Even worse. If he’d misread Aziraphale’s signs of attraction, and made a move and got rejected, he’d die from embarrassment and never be able to face the man again. And if Aziraphale felt the same way, and never acted on it… well… they’d simply continue with this painful dance indefinitely, until Crowley couldn’t take it any longer and quit.

Crowley had to acknowledge to himself that quitting and leaving was a distinct possibility if he couldn’t handle this unrequited yearning any longer. He could make up a story about having to head back to the city for a new job opportunity, or… as he’d originally planned, to pursue the doctoral degree in horticultural that would allow him to teach. He couldn’t simply live here forever. This was a situation with a definite time limit. And the limit depended on him staying far enough away from Aziraphale to keep his head. 

If only Aziraphale knew how prudent a decision it was to insist on continuing to sit in the back seat when Crowley drove him places. If only he had any idea. 


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale had Crowley’s mobile number. He had the phone numbers of all of the staff in his contacts list. He hesitated briefly before texting the man, knowing that it wasn’t technically about work. But also, Crowley said he’d really enjoyed spending time with Aziraphale hadn’t he? A friendly text message wouldn’t be too out of line would it?

He screwed up his courage and carefully typed out a message with his thumbs. It had taken him probably a decade longer than everyone else to grow accustomed to the use of a smartphone. He’d only ever bought the thing because Gabriel had insisted on it. 

_You can’t use a rotary landline to call for help when you’re stranded somewhere, or if there’s an emergency._ He’d scolded Aziraphale while they stood online at a local Verizon store. 

_I can if I happen to be stranded near a rotary telephone,_ Aziraphale had grouched back at him, earning him a roll of Gabriel’s eyes. 

_Come on babe. It’s for your safety. And then I can send you dick pics,_ Gabriel had waggled his eyebrows at Aziraphale suggestively at this point.

_What’s a dick pic?_ Aziraphale had asked in all seriousness.

Gabriel had rolled his eyes even harder and had refused to explain.

Well, _now_ Aziraphale knew what a dick pic was. It was embarrassingly self explanatory, but he’d never been one to leap to conclusions when innuendoes were involved. And Gabriel _had_ sent him a few, to help him break in the new phone. It had been quite nice actually. He’d sent a few back and it had resulted in some fun times in the bedroom. 

Now, he wondered idly what Crowley would do if Aziraphale asked _him_ for a dick pic. Probably he’d quit and leave the premises, but in Aziraphale’s fantasy, Crowley would send him lots of pictures of his cock, in a variety of states of arousal, with dramatic lighting, accompanied by text messages about exactly what Crowley wanted Aziraphale to do to it. 

Shaking his head to dispel thoughts of Crowley’s cock, Aziraphale focused back in on the text he was about to send out. 

**_Hi Crowley, it’s Aziraphale. Would you be up for another horticulture lesson?_ **

There, nothing too personal. Nothing too presumptuous. He waited, nervously biting on the side of his thumb and looking at his mobile every thirty seconds, until, three minutes later, the screen lit up and a return text came through. He grabbed the phone so quickly he almost dropped it and eagerly swiped it open. 

**_Sure thing. Come over when you're ready. I have Azaleas to deal with and you can help :)_ **

Aziraphale smiled broadly and went to rush for the door. It was perfect timing. Three days had passed since the book club meeting, and Gabriel had headed to the city for an interview of some sort and a promotional appearance. It was Friday, and he wouldn’t be back until Monday. Aziraphale realized that he felt as if he were having an illicit affair, when he was really doing nothing more scandalous than learning the care and feeding of plants.

He stopped himself though, with his hand on the doorknob, preparing to twist it open and head directly to the greenhouse, when he suddenly realized how thoughtless and desperate he would come off if he ran over there the second he was invited. 

Crowely had barely even texted him thirty seconds ago, and here he was, rushing to answer his call (or text rather). He took a deep breath, let go of the doorknob and went to make himself a cup of tea. Despite how much he liked the man, he still didn’t have a chance, and if he had one thing left, it was _standards_. He boiled water for tea, made a pot, letting it steep, then went to check his appearance in the mirror. The same rumpled, pale face looked back at him as always. The same soft middle and lines around his eyes. Hair the same white-blond flyaway curls. But, he was clean and well ordered. It would have to do. 

After pouring himself a cup of tea and drinking it down in a mostly unhurried fashion, he picked up his phone and texted Crowley back. 

**_Splendid! Over in a few minutes_ **

He then poured the rest of the tea into a tartan thermos, grabbed a tin of shortbread biscuits and headed out the door at a normal speed, like a sane person. 

This would have to become a regular practice, this holding back and taking his time, not jumping like a small dog at the voice of his master whenever Crowley responded to a text message or gave him another inroad for a connection. He couldn’t simply start courting the man, rushing to him at every opportunity. He had his dignity didn’t he? 

His mind traveled back guiltily to his conversation with Gabriel just yesterday morning as he’d been headed out to the city. Crowley had driven him, and it would be a four hour round trip. 

_It’s gonna be a long ride,_ Gabriel had moaned as he’d put his jacket on. _Good thing I downloaded a few extra podcast episodes. That man is silent as the grave._

_Well,_ Aziraphale had replied, feeling a bit insulted by proxy, _have you tried talking to him?_

_No,_ Gabriel had double checked the contents of his suitcase and picked it up, preparing to head down to the garage. _Why would I do that? He must be frightfully boring. He’s a plant specialist. Can’t get much duller than that._

Aziraphale, knowing he should probably drop it, that he was risking looking a bit too invested in the conversation, couldn’t help but reply, _Well, that’s a rather narrow minded assumption, don’t you think?_

He knew he’d misspoken the minute Gabiel’s eyes flicked up to meet his own and narrowed suspiciously. _You’re defending him,_ he said, suddenly intent. _Because you have a crush on him don’t you._

_I’ve nothing of the sort!_ Aziraphale’s voice had risen a few octaves in his rush to deny what was so obviously the truth.

_Yeah, right. OK._ Gabriel had huffed out a disbelieving gust of a sigh and hefted the weight of the suitcase in his hand. _Look, I don’t care if you want to fuck him. He’s dull and he doesn’t like dick, so it’s not like I’m threatened._

This was as big a lie as Aziraphale’s denial of his crush on Crowley, but he’d decided that it was not the hill he wanted to die on. _Fine, whatever. I hope you have a good trip._ He’d given Gabriel a stiff, perfunctory kiss on the lips and had followed him down to the garage, where he’d dutifully avoided looking directly at Crowley while saying goodbye to Gabriel and seeing them off. 

He’d have gone with Gabriel for the ride, but it wouldn’t have looked all that good, wanting to take a four hour round trip, the second half of which would have been him and Crowley alone on the way back. Gabriel routinely went into the city for work and Crowley routinely drove him, and Aziraphale never came along on those longer trips. And Gabriel and Crowley apparently spent the entire ride in silence. Aziraphale knew they didn’t like each other, and that was to be expected. Gabriel was powerful, controlling, dynamic, intense. Crowley was gentle, thoughtful, cynical and shy. Their personality types wouldn’t mesh well under the best of circumstances, but with the added pressure of Gabriel’s envy and resentment of Crowley’s looks and skills, it was no wonder they didn’t speak.

Now, as Aziraphale arrived at the greenhouse and opened the door, he tried to put Gabriel’s suspicions from his mind so that he could enjoy his time with Crowley. It wasn’t all that bad that Aziraphale was hiding this little, innocent thing from his husband was it? Despite how much Aziraphale yearned to shag Crowley, he wasn’t actually doing it was he? He simply wanted to learn more about plants and to find some friendship in this lonely house in the woods on the edge of a small town in upstate New York. What was so inappropriate about that? 

Then, his eyes lit upon Crowley, unbending from where he’d been kneeling by a stand of bright pink and purple Azaleas, and he realized how very dishonest he was being to himself and to Gabriel. Shoving down his guilt, he smiled broadly and walked over to where Crowley was standing. “I’ve brought tea and some biscuits,” he said, unable to wipe the smile off his face as Crowley grinned broadly back at him.

“Oh lovely! You’re a lifesaver,” Crowley enthused.

“Where shall I…” Aziraphale trailed off, looking for a place to put his thermos and biscuit tin.

“Oh, you can put those down right over here,” Crowley indicated a wooden folding table to his left and Aziraphale complied. “Do you have cups?” He asked, “I could go fetch them from the house if you don’t.”

“I’ve got mugs in my flat, just let me run up there. Back soon.” And with that, he’d jogged off to go find tea mugs. Aziraphale busied himself by looking at the gorgeous flowers. They must be the picky ones Crowley had complained about the other night. He leaned in and inhaled their mild, perfumy fragrance and sighed happily. 

The door banged open and shut and Crowley was walking towards him with a pair of mugs. One of them, upon slightly closer inspection, had a smiling devil face on it, red on black, and the other one was white, and had angel wings for a handle.

“Here you go angel,” Crowley said, shoving the winged mug into Aziraphale’s hands

“Angel huh?” Aziraphale blushed despite himself. “And I suppose that makes you the devil does it?” He was flirting gently and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not now that Crowley had called him _angel_. 

“Oh, I’m not _the_ devil, just a minor demon,” Crowley corrected him with a sly smile. “I bought these as a set, meaning to give them as a wedding present, and then the couple broke it off before the ceremony happened, so I thought it best just to keep them.”

“Yes probably,” Aziraphale smiled as he unscrewed the cap of the thermos and poured them both a steaming mug of tea, then opened the biscuit tin and offered them to Crowley. The other man selected two biscuits and suggested they have a seat at the long, wooden table where the Azaleas were currently sitting. A spot further down was clear, and Crowley quickly dragged over two spindly looking cast iron chairs, decorated in an ivy motiffe. 

“I remember picking these out of a catalogue so that I could sit in the greenhouse and have tea with Gabriel’s publicist and his sister. I didn’t stop to think that I don’t particularly like either of them enough to have tea with them,” he said with a rueful smile. 

“So what’s wrong with them?” Crowley asked

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with them necessarily. It’s only that they’re so posh and polished. Michael, that’s Gabriel’s publicist and his friend, she’s one of those women who looks perfect every day. As if she were following a rule book on how to appear well coiffed and intimidating. And Gabriel’s sister Uriel is quite blunt and not particularly friendly. I only ever suggested that we all have tea to make Gabriel happy.”

“And did it?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale was momentarily confused “I’m sorry?”

“Did it make him happy?” Crowley asked, eyes hidden again behind his dark shades, mouth neutral. 

“I suppose so… I’m not honestly sure,” Aziraphale, still off balance, felt slightly as if he should defend his decision to buy the chair and table set. Or perhaps, he felt he should defend his decision to suggest having tea with Michael and Uriel. He wasn’t sure. 

“Hmm,” responded Crowley, cryptically, and took a sip of tea. “Oh, that’s just perfect. Earl gray?”

“Yes indeed!” piped Aziraphale, ridiculously happy that Crowley liked the tea. “I hope you don’t mind me putting a little sugar in it. Unsweetened tea makes my mouth go dry.”

“I like it,” Crowley replied with a smile. 

Aziraphale realized how very much he looked at the man’s lips, and only partly because it was the most prominent feature on his face when his eyes were hidden. He certainly did have a lovely nose after all. Narrow and long and a little hawkish. But his lips, his mouth, with the thinner upper lip and fuller lower one. With the way it lifted up on one side when he executed a sly grin, and how it pulled the most adorable pair of dimples to his face when he smiled more broadly. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about Crowley’s lips far far too often than was decent. 

“So,” Crowley’s voice broke him out of his distracted musings about the man’s mouth. “Want to learn how to take care of indoor azaleas?” And before Aziraphale could reply, he held his hand up to forstall his words. “I’m warning you though angel, they are incredibly fussy and extremely high maintenance. If you sign on to help, you have to go all in. They’ll accept nothing less.”

Aziraphale grinned at the twin pleasures of Crowley calling him _angel_ a second time (hopefully this was a new habit?) and Crowley’s sense of humor. He must be joking mustn't he? How difficult could these lovely pink flowers really be? He expressed as much, and Crowley raised his eyebrows above his shades.

“Oh, they’re truly horrid,” he responded. “They need their space to be heated just right, but not too hot. They need to be kept constantly damp. _Damp_ mind you, not _wet._ If you dare overwater them, they promptly die in the most dramatic way possible. And the special fertilizer you just _have_ to use on them? It’s expensive and high in nitrogen, and if it isn’t just right, they’ll complain bitterly. Then they’ll die.”

By the end of this little speech, Aziraphale was holding his belly and nearly doubling over with giggles. “You certainly don’t make them sound like much fun,” he gasped out.

“They’re not. That’s why I’m giving you fair warning.” Crowley smiled widely at him as he lifted his devil mug to take another sip. 

“Well then, I shall happily join you in your attempts to care for these spoiled beauties.”

“Good. Suffering is always easier when it’s shared,” Crowley replied ruefully. 

Soon, they finished up their tea and Crowley handed Aziraphale the same pair of gloves he’d loaned him the other week, and they set about fertilizing and watering the azaleas. Crowley talked as they worked, peppering his instructions for Aziraphale with random azalea facts and plant facts in general. 

It felt amazing to Aziraphale, working with his hands, learning new things, caring for something special _with_ someone special. As if what he was doing _mattered_ . As if he were needed and his help was appreciated. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time. Or rather, he hadn’t felt this way in a long time _outside_ of his last horticulture lesson from Crowley. Gabriel so rarely shared anything with Aziraphale and never asked for his help. He was always too busy with other things.

After they were done with the azaleas, Crowley led them outside, handing Aziraphale a small watering can and picking up one of his own. He walked over to the long, low table that abutted the east facing outer wall of the greenhouse, where a line of perhaps thirty or so adorable little cacti were sitting in the sun. “Now these babies,” explained Crowley, “they’re the opposite of azaleas where care and maintenance are involved. Much like the snake plants we worked with the other day, they just need a little water every other week or so, and they like to soak up the sun. So if you just give each one a little splash, they’ll be happy for days on end.”

“Oh how lovely they are!” Aziraphale enthused, watching as Crowley spilled a bit of water onto the first few cactuses in the row. They were lots of different shapes, and all of them were tiny and adorable. Some had small, rounded, jade colored leaves, some were covered in sharp spikes with a single, bright yellow flower, jauntily displayed on the side of their pots. Some had dark green, pointed nubs, rather than leaves, that grew in a sort of Fibonacci sequence of spirals. They were like a group of plump little children at a dance recital, each in their own special wee outfits. Aziraphale was hopelessly charmed as he mirrored Crowley (starting at the other end of the long row), watering the cactuses with care. 

They both worked their way inward, watering as they went, until they met in the middle and without a word, both of them tipped their watering cans to deliver a tiny half portion of water to the central most cactus, a small ball of green, studded with spikes. Crowley looked up at Aziraphale and smiled through his dark shades. Aziraphale smiled back, then, when he noticed Crowley’s closeness, the smell of his shampoo and how his Adam's apple worked in his long, pale throat as he swallowed, he stepped away hurriedly. Things had suddenly gotten too intimate. It was too cute, what they’d been doing, performing this little Lady and the Tramp routine over watering the last cactus together. He had to maintain some semblance of distance from Crowley if he were to retain his sanity. 

Crowley may have recognized this as well - the suddenly awkward closeness - because he sauntered off without warning, calling over his shoulder as he went, “Just gonna head inside to wash my hands.” 

Aziraphale nodded pointlessly, as Crowley could no longer see him, and tracked the movement of Crowley’s swinging hips with hungry eyes. How could the man walk like that and be _straight_? Crowley walked as if his body was loosely fitted together with rubber bands, hips swinging, shoulders swaying. Like a cat on a fence top. Like a snake winding its way across the sands on the side of some far away desert dune. It was mesmerising, and Aziraphale guiltily indulged in staring for a moment, until Crowley rounded the corner and went back inside. 

  
  


Not sure if he was meant to follow Crowley and _also_ wash his hands, Aziraphale lingered for a few moments. He had just decided to go back inside after the flame haired horticulturist, when the door swung open and slammed shut again and Crowley rounded the corner, wiping his hands on a paper towel before tossing it into a convenient outdoor trash bin.

“Are you hungry?” Aziraphale asked, before he could stop himself. “ _I’m_ starving. I know we had tea, but I’m feeling peckish for some honest to goodness, real food. Would you care to join me for lunch?” His brain, having belatedly pieced together what his mouth had just said, reeled back in horror, but then decided that since his mouth had made the decision to put the words out there, it was really just along for the ride and settled back down. 

“Yeah, sure. Sounds lovely,” Crowley responded with a smile.

“Wonderful,” said Aziraphale, a touch breathless. “It’ll be my treat. The least I could do for such an engaging horticulture lesson.”

“Nonsense,” Crowley responded. “I was just doing my job. It was nice to have the company, but all of this would have gotten done eventually anyway. It just went quicker with you here to help.”

“Yes, but Gabriel isn’t paying you to teach me about plants,” Aziraphale interjected. “Let me buy you lunch. It’s the least I can do.” He knew he was treading on thin ice, that his reasons for going out to eat with Crowley were threadbare at best, but he seemed unable to help himself.

“Fair point,” Crowley conceded. “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

“How about that Indian place we talked about the other night? The one in Athena? Saffron?”

“Ohhhh yeah. That sounds fantastic!” Crowley was rubbing his hands together in anticipation and it tickled Aziraphale to see his obvious pleasure over the prospect of eating Indian food. 

“Jolly good! I’ll just go and fetch my wallet and lock up the house and I’ll meet you back here in five minutes? Or.. do you need more time?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah, five minutes works. I’ll just lock up the greenhouse. See you in a minute.”

“See you soon!” Aziraphale turned away, grimacing at his eager tone. The man had _just_ said ‘see you in a minute’, why had he felt compelled to echo the sentiment, like a smitten school girl? _Because you_ are _a smitten school girl, you idiot,_ he chided himself as he made his way up to the house. _Admit it to yourself. You can’t control your behavior around him. You’re just lucky you haven’t pushed him up against the side of the greenhouse and tried to snog him yet._

Just the thought of doing that very thing made Aziraphale stumble a little on the steps up to the side door of the house. He grabbed his wallet off of his bedside table, made sure the side, kitchen door was locked (if Agnes or Octavio needed to get in, they had their own keys) and headed out the front door, locking it from the outside with a house key he kept in the front pocket of his waistcoat. He didn’t bother arming the security system for a simple trip into town. 

He hurried back down to the garage to find that Crowley had already pulled the car out and was waiting. Aziraphale paused before getting in, his hand hovering over the back, passenger seat door handle, wondering if he should offer to sit in the front. But no… they’d agreed that he’d stay sitting in the back hadn’t they? To reinforce the professional boundaries surrounding their friendship? Why were these things so _complicated_? Why couldn’t they just spend all their time together, talking, sharing, laughing… He smothered the desire to ask Crowley to run away with him, Thelma & Louise style, and opened the back door and slid in. 

“When was the last time you had Indian food?” Crowley asked him as they pulled out of the driveway..

“Oh, probably two years ago now. You’ll be shocked to learn that I’ve only eaten it on three different occasions. The first two, in London, at less than reputable establishments. That time Gabriel and I went to Saffron was only the third time. Though, the first time I happened to enjoy it.”

“That, angel, is a travesty,” Crowley smirked, and Aziraphale just managed to keep the pleasure caused by the reappearance of his new nickname from bleeding onto his face. “If there’s one thing northeast American cities are known for,” continued Crowley, “it’s having stupendously good Indian food. I’m glad those first two experiences didn’t put you off it for good.”

“I’m glad as well,” Aziraphale replied, smiling. 

“So, what’s Gabriel up to in the city this weekend? That is, if you don’t mind telling me,” Crowley asked, and his question threw Aziraphale just a little bit. He had to shake himself out of his fantasies of this being a real date, where he took Crowley out to lunch, as if they were just embarking on a new relationship. It reminded him that he was married and Crowley was unavailable. 

He swiftly cleared his throat and brought his attention back to the reality of their situation. “I’d be happy to tell you,” he said, making his voice as cheerful as he could. “He had an interview with some magazine and a three part television appearance. I know I should keep better track, but he’s gotten so popular, that it all just blends together.”

“You must be very proud of him,” Crowley remarked. 

“Oh, yes, yes I am. When we met, he was struggling to get published, and now? Well now, he’s this world famous relationship coach and spiritual guru. I suppose I’m used to it now, but it did take some time to adjust.”

“And what about you?” Crowley executed another swift subject change that had Aziraphale reeling a little “what do you see for your future? What goals and dreams do you have? I mean, outside of finding rare first editions…”

“It’s silly,” Aziraphale waved a dismissive hand in front of his face, as if to dispel Crowley’s question. “I’d rather not say.”

“Come on, I promise not to think it’s silly,” Crowley’s voice was soft and kind and solicitous. He really did sound like he wanted to know. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, “I’ve been writing some poetry lately. Well, not just lately. I’ve been writing poetry my entire life. It’s not all that good, but I do have dreams of one day putting a selection of poems together and publishing them. Even self publishing. It’s just a romantic dream of mine.”

“That’s not silly at all,” Crowley’s voice continued with that oh so sweet, kind tone to it, making Aziraphale want to melt gently into the upholstery of the back seat. “That sounds like a very noble pursuit. I happen to love poetry by the way. If you ever want to show me some of yours, I’d be happy to read it. _But,_ ” and here, he held up a cautionary hand, “not if you don’t want anyone to see it. I always hate when people get pushy about wanting to see other people’s art.”

“Well, I appreciate the offer,” Aziraphale replied. “And of course, it isn’t just poetry. I really would like to return to London someday and take up the operation of my bookshop again. I miss it.”

“Would that work out? With Gabriel?” Crowley asked the obvious question. “Would he come back with you?”

“I highly doubt that,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “His work and all of his friends and family are here. He might be prevailed upon to spend six months here and six months there, or, I could simply move back on my own, and visit each other a few times a year. We make enough now so that plane tickets every few months wouldn’t be all that much of a hardship.”

“That could work,” Crowley nodded. “Lots of couples have done all sorts of things to compromise for the sake of each other’s happiness.”

“Yes, I suppose they have,” Aziraphale replied, wondering why Crowley’s voice sounded sad when he’d made his last statement. And then wondered why his own voice sounded the same. 

They found parking relatively easily for a Friday afternoon and walked the couple of blocks to the restaurant. The place was busy with the lunch crowd, but it was swiftly thinning out, as it was approaching 2pm. They’d arrived at just the right time to catch a good table. Aziraphale made himself comfortable at the small booth, across from Crowley, reveling in the fragrant smells of clove and cardamom, ginger and garlic that wafted through the air. 

“My,” he breathed, “it smells like heaven in here.” 

“That it does,” replied Crowley, and then he removed his dark shades, folding them and putting them into his pocket, and Aziraphale quickly looked down at the laminated menu in front of him, heart pounding and face heating at the mere thought that he’d get to see Crowley’s eyes for the entirety of this meal. 

“Do you have any recommendations?” he asked, still not looking up. 

“I do! The garlic naan is amazing. Also their vegetable samosas, and saag paneer are fantastic. And like I said before, their chicken vindaloo is to die for. I’m fine with telling them to go easy on the spice. I know you don’t like too much heat.”

“Perhaps I’ll be adventurous today,” Aziraphale mused while his eyes slid down the surface of the menu, confused by options he was unfamiliar with. “A little spice would be delightful.” That’s when he looked up and met Crowley’s eyes for the first time since the man had removed his shades. Their eyes caught for a second, neither moving, and was it Aziraphale’s imagination, or was there a spark of interest reflected there?

_Impossible_ he chided himself sternly. _He likes you as a friend. That is a spark of friendly affection, if it’s not just a trick of the lighting._

Still, it took a heart pounding second longer before Crowley grinned and dropped his eyes to his own menu. “That can be arranged,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to send you to hospital with a flaming tongue, so I’ll tell them to make it medium spicy.”

“Whatever you think is best Crowley. I’m out of my depth here, so I’ll rely on your expert experience.”

“Do you want me to order for you?” Crowley offered, eyebrows lifting questioningly.

“Certainly! I have no clue what these options entail. I have no allergies and I love virtually everything, so please, order away!” He grinned and was delighted to see Crowley grin back, if a bit more mischievously. Though, it was dawning on him that most of Crowley’s grins had a glint of mischief behind them. It was one of the many things that made the man so appealing. That devilish gleam in his eyes, as if he were continually letting you in on a prank or a secret. 

“Alright then. I’ll try to take my duties seriously,” he said as a server approached the table. “We’ll have chicken tikka masala, saag paneer, bhindi masala, and an order of garlic naan,” he told the server. “And… if you would, only make it medium spicy please.”

The man nodded, smiling and took their menus. “Thank you,” said Aziraphale, fiddling with the edge of the bright pink and orange table cloth. “And thank you for my lesson today. I had no idea azaleas were so difficult to maintain. And those cactuses? They were just darling!”

“My pleasure,” Crowley replied with a broad grin, his large golden eyes crinkling at the edges in a way that made Aziraphale’s heart hurt a little. “It really is nice to have someone be interested in what I do. People all over the world rely on plants for so much, for food, for the beautification of our homes, for the discovery of new medicines. But for some reason, being obsessed with plants doesn’t make one endlessly fascinating to your average person.” He chuckled softly before continuing. “I suppose it’s because plants and flowers don’t move or speak or do anything more spectacular than just grow and look pretty.”

“Well, I find it all rather fascinating,” Aziraphale replied, and when he thought about what he’d just said, he realized that it was genuinely true. Yes, he desired Crowley, but he really did enjoy and appreciate all that he was learning from the man as well. It broadened his horizons, and helped him re-remember that he had a life of his own, interests and goals of his own, separate from Gabriel’s career and Gabriel’s needs. 

“I appreciate the interest,” Crowley said. “And don’t feel you have to keep coming by if it starts to bore you,” he added, keeping his tone light and casual. 

“I don’t honestly see how you could ever bore anyone,” Aziraphale responded without thinking. _Clearly without thinking._ He immediately looked down at his hands where they were still fiddling aimlessly with the edge of the table cloth. His face was aflame and he felt an apology rising up inside his throat, fighting to get out of his mouth. _I’m sorry. I’m hitting on you and that’s dreadfully inappropriate,_ was all cued up at the back of his tongue, ready to be launched out into the open, to excuse his forward comment. 

But Crowley only chuckled warmly. “You’re very sweet, but believe me, after you’ve learned about seventeen different ways to apply fertilizer, you might change your opinion.”

Aziraphale nodded, face still burning and looked back down at his menu, for lack of anything else to do in that moment. 

Crowley was probably enjoying being the recipient of Aziraphale’s clumsy flirting, the object of Aziraphale’s desire. The man _must_ know the effect he had on Aziraphale by now. He was straight, but he wasn’t _blind._ How could he miss the blushes, the stammering, the nervous twitching that consumed Aziraphale’s body whenever he was near Crowley? And how could it not make him uncomfortable? 

He realized belatedly, that Crowley hadn’t done the Straight Bloke Speech yet. The speech Aziraphale had heard a few times over the course of his life, that always left him feeling horrid and embarrassed. The _hey mate, I really like you, but I don’t swing that way,_ speech. The careful statement that was intended to gently remind Aziraphale that the heterosexual man he was becoming chummy with wasn’t interested in him sexually. 

He’d been blessed to only hear that speech three times over the course of his life. The first, (and most damaging) being in secondary school, when a boy his age shoved him and told him to ‘back off!’ when Aziraphale had placed a well meaning and platonic hand on his shoulder to console him for the death of his dog. 

The second time was in his bookshop (before he’d met Gabriel), when chatting up a man he genuinely thought might be interested, but who’d only been interested in a well preserved, anonymous WWI soldier’s journal. The man had been kind, had not wanted to hurt Aziraphale’s feelings, saying gently, _you seem a nice bloke, but I get the feeling maybe you think something is going on here? Sorry to say, but I’m not interested in men.’_

The final time had been through email, a few years ago now, while he’d been having a lovely exchange with an Italian bookseller he’d been corresponding with for months. Something about the way Aziraphale wrote to him apparently felt too intimate for the man, who’d suddenly written a terse reply to say that he didn’t _feel that way_ about men in general, or Aziraphale in particular, before stopping the correspondence abruptly. 

What was sad about that last Straight Bloke Speech had been the fact that Aziraphale _hadn’t_ _at all_ intended to be flirtatious. He’d been a faithfully married man after all. He simply had a soft, warm heart and was extra kind and complimentary to those he liked. It was a shame that emotional intimacy, or even the most casual of touches between men had to be charged with homophobic tension the way it was. 

Crowley however, even though Aziraphale had invited him to a book club meeting, had invited himself over to learn about horticulture, had invited the man to _lunch_ for heaven’s sake, hadn’t given him The Speech yet. Yes, he’d mentioned that Gabriel would be jealous, and cautioned Aziraphale against them spending time together that could be construed as inappropriate (like getting drunk together at social events.) But that had been about _Gabriel_ and his propensity for possessive jealousy. It had nothing to do with Aziraphale, and his (probably) obvious adoration of Crowley. 

It was one of the reasons Aziraphale enjoyed Crowley’s company so much. He didn’t act like other straight men. He wasn’t stiff and uncomfortable around Aziraphale. He didn’t flinch back when Aziraphale drew near, and hadn’t even (directly) mentioned his sexual orientation, which was one of the kinder ways he’d been rejected in the past. Men would sometimes just casually mention their _wives_ or _girlfriends_ and step away from him a little, clearing their throats gruffly. And that’s all it took to warn Aziraphale away. 

Crowley wasn’t warning him away at all. Crowley, if anything, was _welcoming him closer_ . This was incomprehensible to Aziraphale, and it was a very mixed message and a mixed blessing. On one hand, it made spending time with Crowley incredibly enjoyable. It allowed Aziraphale to feel accepted and like he might have a real friend in Crowley. On the other hand though, it did nothing to squelch Aziraphale’s insane crush. Having Crowley be warm and friendly to Aziraphale, giving him those kind smiles and soft looks was sort of doing Aziraphale’s head in. If this went on much longer, it might be Aziraphale himself who gave _Crowley_ the Straight Bloke Speech. He could just imagine it now.

_Crowley, you’ve become such a dear friend, and while I very much enjoy our closeness, I think it only fair to alert you to the fact that I think about undressing you and doing filthy things to your naked body every forty six seconds or so. Perhaps it would be best if we spent less time together?_

“You alright?” Cowley asked, his eyes narrowing slightly with concern from across the table. “You’ve gone a bit quiet.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Aziraphale shook himself out of his anguished self reflection and gave Crowley a wan smile. “I was far away, worrying about something silly. I’m back now.” 

“Anything you want to talk about?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale hurried to shake his head. 

“No, no, it’s nothing. So, tell me what _your_ plans are for the future? I doubt you want to spend the rest of your life caring for our greenhouse.”

Crowley bit his lower lip and looked pensive for a moment before replying. “I honestly want to go back to school to earn a doctoral degree to become a professor of horticulture. I want to teach, or perhaps get into research. I’m just not sure if I want to do that here, or back in London.”

“That’s lovely!” replied Aziraphale with a bright smile. “Do you miss London as well?”

“I do,” admitted Crowley. “I left the UK under uncertain circumstances after accumulating a lot of bad memories, but most of those have faded away to ghosts at this point, and while I love Manhattan, it isn’t quite _home_. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do indeed,” Aziraphale replied, thinking of his cozy bookshop, his old haunts. He hadn’t spoken to Anathema or Deirdre in almost a year, and made a promise to himself then and there to have a skype call with both of them as soon as possible. “Well,” he sighed, “we’ll be sorry to lose you, but I’m glad you want to teach. I think you make a fantastic teacher.”

He watched, with far too much pleasure as Crowley smiled a shy smile and his cheeks grew pink and he cast his eyes downward in a way that made Aziraphale’s chest ache with the urge to kiss him. _Oh my. This is more than sexual desire_ he thought to himself as his eyes played longingly over Crowley’s blushing features. _This is something else entirely._

Just then, the server returned with a tray covered with ceramic bowls of rice and several small, metal bowls containing steaming, delightful smelling substances in rust red and dark green colors and a basket of naan bread. Aziraphale abandoned his train of thought in favor of clapping hands delightedly and making little cooing noises as Crowley explained what they were eating. The rust colored sauce dish was the tikka masala, and the green dish (with white cubes floating in it,) was the saag paneer, which turned out to be a mild type of cheese in what could only be described as “spinach gloop.” Aziraphale happily piled rice onto his plate and topped it with twin helpings of chicken and saag paneer, and Crowley did the same, though his portions were far smaller. 

They both refrained from talking for a few moments as they tucked in. While Aziraphale didn’t speak, he couldn’t prevent himself from groaning gently at the exquisite taste of the food. The textures and flavors were unusual to him, after a lifetime spent mostly _not_ eating Indian food. He adored the slightly squeaky texture of the cheese and the flavorful thick spinach sauce was delicious. The chicken, when he took a bite, nearly melted in his mouth, and he chewed happily. 

Crowley ate more slowly and carefully, and Aziraphale caught him casting furtive glances in Aziraphale’s direction, as if to assess what Aziraphale thought of the food. Aziraphale put another bite into his mouth, this one with equal parts chicken and saag paneer, and moaned in pleasure at the flavor combination. He looked up in time to see Crowley staring at him, eyes wide, mouth gaping slightly. The man realized he’d been caught staring and dropped his eyes instantly, his face coloring again. 

“Oh, I _am_ sorry,” Aziraphale apologized hurriedly, with a self conscious smile. “I do tend to get a little _too_ verbally expressive at meal times. Gabriel says I make inappropriate noises when I eat. He calls me a ‘gastro-sexual.’ Aziraphale chuckled, hoping to excuse his sighs and moans without causing Crowley undue embarrassment. 

Crowley only cleared his throat and shifted a bit in his chair. “It’s a compliment to the cook,” he replied, keeping his eyes trained on his own plate. “I like that term by the way,” he added, grinning softly as he stabbed a block of paneer onto his fork and lifted it to his mouth. “Gastro-sexual. Ha! I’ll definitely be using that one again.”

Aziraphale smiled in relief and went back to eating. They spent the majority of the rest of the meal in silent enjoyment, with a few comments here and there from Aziraphale on how delightfully scrummy the food was. Crowley seemed pleased, humming happily in response as he ate. 

When the check came, Aziraphale reached for it immediately and Crowley did the same, and Crowley’s hand came to rest briefly on top of Aziraphale’s, having gotten to the check too late to claim it himself. Aziraphale needed to pull his hand away but did not. Crowley _should have_ pulled his hand away, but didn’t either. Now, their hands were pressed lightly together over the check, and Aziraphale thought perhaps his whole body might spontaneously combust with how good it felt. 

“I said I’d be the one treating you to lunch,” he managed, unsteadily, looking at the center of Crowley’s chest, unable to meet the other man’s amber eyes. 

“I know that’s what you said, but I still feel like _I_ should be the one treating you,” Crowley replied, and did Aziraphale imagine a bit of gruffness in his tone? He (regrettably) removed his hand, allowing Aziraphale to breathe a little easier. “I should have been clearer, but I have this thing about other people paying for me,” he continued. “Especially when that other person is married to the man who signs my checks. Perhaps you could reconsider splitting the bill?” His voice was kind but firm. He meant what he’d said.

Aziraphale frowned slightly at the mention of Crowley’s employment with he and Gabriel, but relented to make the man happy. “Fine, if you’d like to split it, that’s fine,” he said, forcing an agreeable smile onto his face. 

“I’d like to,” Crowley affirmed, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans to fish out his wallet and putting a twenty dollar bill on the table. “If it makes you feel any better, you can cover the tip,” he smiled at Aziraphale, which went a long way to making him forget to be put out by Crowley’s insistence on going dutch. And, he supposed, in hindsight, it _was_ more professional that way. Then, if Gabriel ever found out about him going to lunch with Crowley, he could honestly say that they’d both paid for their own food. That he hadn’t _treated_ Crowley, which would have looked immeasurably worse, immeasurably more date-like. 

They both shoved a more than adequate amount of money into the black bill book, enough for the meal and a hefty tip, and rose to leave. Aziraphale had asked for the leftovers to be wrapped up, and fully intended on forcing them onto Crowley when they got home. 

The ride back was strangely quiet. Aziraphale tried to strike up a conversation with Crowley a few times, and Crowley would respond politely, but the conversation didn’t take off like it had been lately. Something was off about Crowley’s behavior, and Aziraphale immediately thought up all the things he could have done wrong, the most obvious of which was probably inviting the man to lunch in the first place. 

They pulled up to the house a blessedly short time later and Aziraphale, as he’d promised himself, insisted that Crowley take the leftovers. He’d resisted at first, but relented when Aziraphale pointed out that he and Gabriel had a household cook that made them all their meals, whereas Crowley was responsible for feeding himself, at which point Crowley was finally prevailed upon to take the plastic bag full of small, tupperware containers. They said a polite goodnight, and it seemed to Aziraphale, that despite the fact that Crowley was once again wearing his shades, that the man might have been avoiding his eye contact. 

He glumly walked back to the house, feeling let down, despite the lovely lunch they’d shared and the multiple positive interactions they’d had. Somehow, some way, Aziraphale had insulted Crowley. Or he’d made him uncomfortable. _Something was amiss._ And yes, Aziraphale could acknowledge that it might have been something he’d played no role in, but his paranoid, insecure brain still supplied him with multiple ways he could have mistepped or gone awry in his interactions with Crowley. _Maybe,_ supplied his brain, veritably jumping up and down with suggestions about how Aziraphale had made a mess of things, _maybe, he’s getting tired of you mooning over him so pathetically. Maybe, he thought you were sweet at first, and now he’s getting uncomfortable with the obvious crush you’re harboring for him. The man has eyes. He knows attraction when he sees it._

Despite the fact that there was at least a 50 percent chance that Aziraphale hadn’t been the cause of the stiffness that had descended over the last twenty minutes of their time together, he had to admit that it wasn’t unthinkable that Crowley knew how gone on him Aziraphale truly was. The man walked around with that face and body every day. He was hardly naive enough to have missed the way Aziraphale stared and stuttered and turned red every five minutes in Crowley's company. 

Sighing as he unlocked the side door to the house, Aziraphale decided tonight would be a good night to have a long overdue skype chat with Anathema. She’d have some useful perspectives, and he could trust her not to judge him for his extramarital temptations. She’d always accepted him as he truly was, without the false front he had to put up around others. 

After a moment’s honest reflection, Aziraphale was dismayed to realize that his own husband had a prominent spot on the list of people he put the false front up for in the first place. 


	8. Chapter 8

The hotel room wasn’t as nice as Gabriel had expected it to be. He’d appeared on a popular health and wellness talk show earlier that day, the second appearance in a row this weekend. He was scheduled for a third appearance tomorrow, then the magazine interview before he headed home again. The show’s network was putting him up in a passably nice hotel downtown, but the room was somewhat smaller than what he’d grown accustomed to, and the burnt orange wallpaper and gray duvet combo wasn’t making him happy either. He’d have to talk to his assistant Gina about vetting hotels ahead of time in the future. He didn’t currently have the energy to head down to the front desk to complain though. And besides, he had plans tonight. 

His plans involved having a chaste dinner out by himself at a fancy steak restaurant a few blocks down the street, and then meeting Justin back at the hotel for an evening of what would hopefully be incredibly vigorous and enjoyable sex, before getting a good night’s sleep in preparation for his next tv appearance. 

Justin was exactly his type. Young, vain, naive and stunningly good looking, but also, not outspoken or demanding enough to cause a problem. He’d picked the boy up in an upscale bar a couple of months ago when he’d been in town for another television appearance and had gone out for a drink afterwards. The bar was the type frequented by celebrities and beautiful people who flocked to them, Justin was obviously the type of young man who wandered around such places looking for sugar daddies to buy him drinks. And that’s exactly what Gabriel had done. 

He’d been careful, not touching the young man too much in public, and definitely not kissing him, or doing anything else that could entice a journalist to snap a few incriminating photos. 

Being in the line of work that Gabriel was in, as a relationship expert, he definitely didn’t attract nearly as much media attention as, say, being a rock star, or an actor. He was mostly popular with middle aged women and a smattering of men, the type of which did a lot of yoga and ate only organic vegetables. Emotional health and spiritual well being weren’t nearly as sexy as the film and music industry, or politics. So it was unlikely that he’d be hounded by paparazzi, and even if someone  _ did  _ spot him chatting up a pretty young thing in public, he could easily say that the man had come to him for advice, or because he was a fan, and who was Gabriel, if not accommodating to his fans?

He didn’t pick up boys all the time, preferring to settle on one new partner every few months, instead of a string of one night stands. Longer term flings were safer, for him and for Aziraphale. He had no desire to bring home an STI, and even though he was relentlessly careful with barriers and got tested regularly, he didn’t like the odds of picking up total strangers for one time things. 

Longer term affairs however did have challenges that one night stands did not. On the plus side, they allowed for a more regular, reliable hookup, with someone he’d get to know sexually enough to have some real fun with. One night stands (at least for Gabriel) tended to be awkward and a little unsatisfying. He liked getting to know his lover’s body, learning how to please them and teaching them how to please him. 

On the more negative end of the spectrum, he ran the risk of the boy becoming too attached. Of wanting Gabriel for himself, or worse, having his resentment over Gabriel’s marriage turn public. Kids these days regularly used social media to tear down their enemies or humiliate people they disliked. He couldn’t risk a possessive young man posting any pictures of the two of them together, and he made it clear upfront that none were to be taken. 

For this reason, he chose men (boys really, if Gabriel were being honest. They were often between the ages of eighteen and twenty three) that fit a specific set of criteria. 

Firstly, they had to be young. Gabriel liked them young. He knew it was probably because he’d felt his most vulnerable and most unloved in high school, and that’s where he’d fantasized the most intensely about the beautiful boys in his gym and shop classes. Those boys had ignored him, an extremely tall, extremely thin gangly boy with a bad case of teen acne and a greasy complexion. He’d eventually evened out, eaten more, had gained some bulk and hit the gym obsessively, and he’d vowed never again to be as invisible and unlovable as that teenage self. 

Now, the young, pretty boys he’d longed for in high school were finally in his bed, doing all the things he’d wanted them to do when he was seventeen. It was wish fulfillment of the most direct and cathartic sort. 

Secondly, the boys had to have no interest in what he did for a living. It was alright if they knew he was a famous author and relationship coach, or that he was wealthy, because that was a large part of what drew them in, but they couldn’t be  _ fans _ of his. Despite the fact that it would be easier to get them into bed if they loved his work, it was also a powder keg of emotional investment. Fucking his fans would virtually guarantee obsessive, controlling behavior or fantasies about him divorcing his husband to marry them. Or worse, once they realized how difficult he could be underneath the fame and the money, they’d be three times more likely to defame him in public. 

Thirdly, he liked boys that were just a little bit out of his league. Boys that would be happy  _ enough _ with his middle aged good looks and his skills in the bedroom, and the things he could buy them, but not overly impressed by these things. He specifically wanted boys who he could depend upon to enjoy seeing him sporadically for a few months and then lose interest when his glamor wore off. That way, there was never a scene, or a scandal or even oftentimes a phone call. He’d gotten so many lukewarm break up texts from so many self absorbed young men over the past ten years or so that he’d been having these affairs that he almost had the timing of them down to a science. 

It was an arrangement that worked well for him. If they were stunning enough to be able to play the field and/or lose interest in him in less than a year, he was set up for a drama free situation. 

Also, he never let them spend the night. All it took was one photo of him sleeping, shirtless, splayed out on the bed in his boxers (or without his boxers) and his cover was forever blown. One slip up to the press, and his image of the perfect guru fell apart. Never mind that it had happened to countless other celebrities in the past, drug addiction, underage prostitutes, sexual assault, high profile afairs. He couldn’t risk getting his name dragged through the mud by being known as the relationship coach who cheated on his faithful husband with barely legal twinks. 

And whatsmore, he  _ did _ love his husband. Aziraphale was, and always had been a sweet, supportive person. When Gabriel had first seen him, in that pub in soho back, what was it? Nineteen, twenty years ago now? He’d been incredibly charmed by that sweetness, that innocence. Aziraphale had looked at him as if Gabriel were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, as if he were trembling with the desire to be touched by Gabriel, and that was a huge turn on. And Aziraphale had surprisingly turned out to be more than just fun in bed. He’d been smart and funny and the type of earnest that made Gabriel want to be a better man. At least for a few years. 

And the truth of the matter was, he’d needed a husband. Or failing a legal marriage (which at the time, in the late 90s had seemed a distant prospect for LGBT people) a solid, monogamous seeming partnership. Otherwise, how would he ever expect to sell the idea that he could heal people’s marriages? No one wanted relationship advice from a man who spent his spare time fucking barely legal boys in hotel rooms, or a man who couldn’t commit to one partner. And Aziraphale was so perfect. Innocent, naive, kind, understanding. And adorable in a way that Gabriel just knew the press (were he to ever find the fame he’d long sought) would eat up like a bowl of ice cream. 

He’d proposed, hoping beyond hope that he could make it work with Aziraphale and make it work in the new age relationship advice industry. He figured, if things went south with his career, and he and Aziraphale didn’t work out, he could leave, or perhaps find someone better suited for the role. As time went on though, he realized that  _ no one _ would be better suited to the role. Aziraphale was  _ perfect _ as his loving, supportive partner. Because he was actually loving and supportive. It wasn’t an act. The man was a literal saint. 

Things went well for the first few years. Gabriel hadn’t even been tempted to cheat all that often. Azirpahale was sexually insatiable, adoring, considerate and a lot of fun to spend time with. But, like in most of Gabriel’s relationships,  the novelty of his partner eventually wore off and Gabriel's attention began to wander.

Gabriel knew he was exacting, demanding, critical and controlling. That was the only way he’d managed to pull himself out of friendless, sexless obscurity and secure himself a position as a sexually viable, attractive man. By relentless dieting and hours at the gym. By finding and befriending the right people (like Michael), and by making sure he had the sharpest wardrobe, the coolest car, knew all the best restaurants. 

One of the things that had started to sour him on Aziraphale was that Aziraphale possessed none of these things, nor did he want them. He was shamelessly out of date with his clothing. He didn’t drive. He was obsessed with books and had not a care for his image, and he persisted in being overweight, despite Gabriel’s many attempts to get him to diet or go to the gym. He  _ did  _ love going to good restaurants, but only those that were  _ actually _ good, as in tasty, regardless of who owned them or how much the food cost. And that list unfortunately included diners and all you can eat barbeque places. 

The man was a prim, fussy senior citizen in a much younger body. But… despite the fact that Aziraphale irritated Gabriel on many levels, he did still provide Gabriel with a much needed service. He made Gabriel look  _ respectable _ . Straight people needed to find LGBT people charming and entertaining in order to trust them. If Gabriel had married some gorgeous, self centered man instead of twitchy, stuffy, charming Aziraphale, there wouldn’t have been that adorable contrast between the two of them. It was this difference that helped make him and his husband approachable, accessible and relatable to the general public. And it was that same contrast that made audiences and readers sigh and clutch their hearts and ask him repeatedly on twitter for pictures of he and Aziraphale holding hands or he and Aziraphale on dates. There had even been a brief spate of fans, who came up with a hashtag, (‘#aziragabe’) and who spent way too much of their time swooning over he and Aziraphale’s relationship. Gabriel had tried to explain this to Aziraphale, who’d ended up hopelessly lost, and so he hadn’t pushed the idea, just retweeted the most popular #aziragabe tweets and played along for publicity’s sake. 

And, underneath it all, despite the frustration and disappointment, Gabriel  _ did _ love Aziraphale. He was hard not to love. And he was grateful for Aziraphale’s presence in his life. Or at least he tried to be. It was tough sometimes. The man was so very unchangeable. He refused to conform to the shape and size and persona that Gabriel wanted him to be. But maybe, therein lay the reason he was so well loved. Aziraphale was Aziraphale. And he was adored by Gabriel’s fans. And so they had to stay married at all costs. 

And this is why Gabriel relented when Aziraphale snapped back at him. It’s why Gabriel took such pains to keep from having his affairs brought to light. It’s why he was so relentlessly careful with safer sex practices, and why he didn’t allow sleepovers, and why he chose his lovers with such exacting criteria. It was all to keep Aziraphale happy enough not to leave. The library, the refurbishment of the greenhouse, the driver to take Aziraphale to his clubs and appointments, all this had been done to keep Aziraphale satisfied and entertained. 

He’d even made the decision to hire Crowley with this one goal in mind. He could have hired someone less attractive (though hardly more qualified), but the moment he found out that Crowley was straight, he’d known the red haired, lanky man had been the perfect choice. He saw the obvious interest in his husband’s face when talking to Crowley. It was difficult to miss. Aziraphale had lit up like a lanturn when they’d been introduced. Once Gabriel had gotten over his knee jerk envious jealousy, he’d realized that hiring Crowley might actually work to his advantage. It would give Aziraphale someone to lust after without any risk of the man actually reciprocating. Having Crowley hanging around, driving Aziraphale places would distract his husband from whatever it was Gabriel was up to that week or that month. 

To his delight, his plan had worked perfectly. Aziraphale was a flushed mess whenever Crowley drove them both somewhere or whenever he watched the man slink across the grounds, headed to and from the greenhouse. Gabriel could see Aziraphale tracking the movement of those ridiculous hips with hungry eyes, and he’d known hiring Crowley had worked out well. 

And Crowley was straight! He’d never be tempted to seduce Aziraphale, and Gabriel knew from two decades spent married to Aziraphale, that even if the man  _ had _ been interested, that his husband would never make a move on their stunning new employee. He lacked the courage, and, whatsmore, he’d had it drilled into him from childhood that marital infidelity was a grave sin. Gabriel knew how much the guilt and sex negativity of his childhood upbringing had worked its way into Aziraphale’s subconscious, simply from how much work he’d had to do with getting Aziraphale to relax in the bedroom. Eventually, his husband had grown comfortable enough to dive into sexual experimentation with abandon, but the fear of nudity, the knee jerk guilt over getting fucked anally, the refusal (at first) to use the dirty talk that Gabriel loved so much… it had been a process.

After all was said and done, Aziraphale was a devoted and faithful spouse, and Gabriel was secure enough in that fact to bank his entire reputation in it. He had the perfect set up. His husband was distracted, (but not  _ too _ distracted), and as a pleasant, dual side effect, the refurbishment of the greenhouse had made Aziraphale happy  _ and  _ had provided Gabriel with a boost to his reputation. 

People  _ loved _ that greenhouse. His fans shared tons of photos of it on social media and gushed about how beautiful it was. Gabriel soaked up all of that attention and carefully kept from mentioning Crowley in all the online comments, posts and reblogs of said photos. Luckily, no one ever gave a shit about who grew the plants. Horticulture, while essential to the history and future of human development, and while fascinating in it’s own, quiet way, was never the focus of flashy social media sites and fans who gushed about celebrities. And what was even more fortuitous, Crowley seemed not to have much of a social media presence, at least not under his legal name. 

Gabriel had it all worked out, and things were going swimmingly. He slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower in preparation for his date later. Already he was getting semi-hard thinking about Justin’s slim hips, trapped in the grip of his hands, Justin’s soft mouth on his cock.

Unsurprisingly, the addition of Crowley to their household had made Aziraphale hornier than he’d been in years. Gabriel knew it was no coincidence that after the sexy horticulturalist had moved into the Archer estate that Aziraphale had been trying to seduce Gabriel more frequently than his usual, shy, once a month request. Gabriel had let himself be seduced. It would keep Aziraphale happy, and he had to admit, he still enjoyed sex with his husband to a degree. Yes, things had grown stale over the years, but a nice fuck every few weeks was hardly unpleasant. 

Plus, Aziraphale’s extra sex drive was proof positive that Crowley was doing what Gabriel (at least partially) hired him to do. Keep Aziraphale distracted.

Yes, Gabriel mused as he stepped into the shower, things were working out really well all around.


	9. Chapter 9

“Everything is a mess!” Aziraphale exclaimed, gazing anxiously at Anathema’s lovely face in the webcam image on his computer. They’d spent the first thirty minutes or so of their conversation with Aziraphale hearing her update him on her life in London. She and her husband Newt were doing well. Newt had just been promoted to head supervisor of the IT department where he worked, and Anathema’s shop was thriving. Their daughter, Abigail, now twelve years old, was gearing up to be an incorrigible teenager, and their son, Rafael, a rambunctious seven year old, had finally agreed to make homework a priority over video games. At least for the current week. 

Now they had worked their way around to asking about Aziraphale’s life, and he’d decided to tell her everything. 

“Come now Azi, it can’t be that bad can it?” Anathema asked him.

“Yes, it _can_ be that bad!” Aziraphale insisted, “my marriage is in trouble! And I’m pretty sure Gabriel doesn’t love me at all anymore, and… and… there’s this _man_.” 

“Oh dear,” Anathema’s mouth fell open, and her eyes grew wide. “What’s this about a _man_? Last I heard from you, a year ago, you guys were doing fine.”

“I made it _sound_ that way because I wasn’t ready to admit the issues to myself,” Aziraphale explained. It felt good to talk about his fears and problems to someone at last. He suddenly realized how truly alone he was when it came to confidants he could trust. Why had he waited until now to reach out to Anathema? “It took me a really long time to acknowledge to myself that we weren’t just going through a rough patch. That there were serious problems.” He sighed and took another sip of his tea that had finally cooled enough to drink.

“Tell me all about it, my white chocolate darling,” Anathema cooed reassuringly. Her eyes were kind, like they always were when she listened to him talk about his troubles. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, feeling suddenly overcome with gratitude for her friendship. “I don’t tell you that enough my dear.” 

“Aw sweetheart, I love you too. I’m so glad you wanted to talk. It’s been too long. Tell me what’s up.” she smiled warmly at him, encouragingly. He really had missed her. 

“Well, it all started rather innocently,” Aziraphale began.

“I like where this is going,” Anathema butted in briefly with a sly grin before settling back down to listen again.

“Remember when we hired that new bloke to fix up the greenhouse? It was right before our last skype call.”

“Yes, I certainly do. The hot one right? I seem to remember you thinking he was… what did you call him? _Delicious_?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I may have said that,” Aziraphale admitted with a gentle flinch. “But regardless, he started working for us, and he did a wonderful job. Fantastic. Got the greenhouse back to its former glory, and he drives Gabriel and I to appointments all the time. He’s really very nice.”

“That’s good to hear... “ Anathema said warily, clearly waiting for some other shoe to drop.

“Well, I got curious... and bored, and... I started chatting him up on drives, and well… it appears we’ve become friends.” 

“Ahhh,” Anathema said knowingly, waiting for Aziraphale to continue. 

“And now, I’m afraid I’ve gone and fallen head over heels in love with him,” Aziraphale finished. 

“Oh sweetie. Didn’t you say he was straight? I’m so sorry. That must be tough.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded, letting his head fall into his hand for a moment before lifting his gaze back up to Anathema’s. “Here’s the thing though Anathema my darling. He is _responding to me._ In that he is being _very_ warm and _very_ nice, and there’s been no SBS” (their private abbreviation for Straight Bloke Speech). 

“Did he ever tell you explicitly that he was straight?” Anathema asked.

“Of course he has,” Aziraphale said, then thought for a moment. “Well, not _explicitly_ . He’s mentioned a couple of girlfriends though. I mean who tells their employer that they’re straight? Straight people never have to tell _anyone_ they’re straight! Everyone just assumes it. If a man mentions having female partners, he’s straight as a bloody arrow.” 

“Yes dear, but let's not forget that Newt never told me _he_ was straight, and _he_ mentioned female partners to me too. But…” here she paused. 

“Yes, yes, I get it. Your husband is bi. I know, I shouldn’t do the bi erasing.”

“Erasure,” corrected Anathema patiently.

“Yes, _erasure_ , but let's face it, Crowley is probably just humoring me. I’m his boss’s husband after all. He’s practically _paid_ to be nice to me. It’s far more likely that he’s straight and hoping for a promotion than that he’s bi and hiding it.”

“Why not though?” Anathema persisted gently. “It took Newt almost two months of dating me to work up the nerve to let me know he liked guys. He was so afraid I’d break up with him, or assume he wasn’t attracted to me, or assume that he wanted other partners. He had to get really drunk just to broach the subject. And he was right to be afraid. People do _not_ understand bisexuality. So I wouldn’t rule it out if I were you.”

“Yes, you’re right dear. And I applaud Newt for speaking up, but I think Crowley is likely just flirting back a bit to secure his job.”

“Alright. If you say so. So, you have a mad crush on an (ostensibly) straight man. And things are going south with Gabriel?  
  


“Yes,” admitted Aziraphale glumly. “Gabriel rarely even touches me anymore, and he’s always away on trips. And then every other day, I’m spending time with Crowley, and he’s… he’s just so beautiful, and so nice, and so… so… fucking _sexy_ . I can’t cope with it. It’s becoming a serious problem, because it’s more than me wanting to shag him. I really _really_ like who he is as a person. I want to be his friend _and_ I want to shag him, and I want to run my fingers through his hair.. Did I tell you he had the most delightful red hair?”

“Jesus Christ, Aziraphale, you are _fucked,_ ” Anathema opined unhelpfully. “I’ve never seen you like this. Not even when you fell for Big Daddy.” (Anathema’s nickname for Gabriel.) 

“I’m utterly besotted,” Aziraphale agreed unhappily.

“Why don’t you tell Crowley how you feel?” Anathema suggested, like the arsehole she sometimes was.

“My dear, are you mental?!” Aziraphale spluttered indignantly. “Of _course_ I can’t tell him how I feel! That would be suicide!”

“Well, at the very least, you’d get it out in the open. Then he could say ‘thanks but no thanks,’ or “cool, cuz I’ve been wanking off to you for months now, let's go blow each other.’ No? Wouldn’t that be a good thing? End the mystery?”

“Oh no, Anathema, I _couldn’t_ ,” Aziraphale was adamant. “Telling him how I feel will only serve at best to make him feel superior that his employer's pathetic husband is lost on him, and at worst, make him horribly uncomfortable being around me.”

“Yeah, but you’re forgetting one thing darling,” Anathema said with a sly tone to her voice. One of her perfect, dark eyebrows was climbing upwards in the arch look she often gave him before some sort of profound statement. 

“And pray tell, what could I possibly be forgetting?”

“That you are quite obviously as gay as the day is long,” she replied, ignoring Aziraphale’s mostly mock gasp of indignation. “He _knows this_ about you. So if he’s being extra nice, because you’re gay and he wants to curry your favor, than he won’t be uncomfortable once he finds out that your curry has… already been favored… You catch my drift? _And…_ ” she went on as Aziraphale prepared to speak up to disagree, cutting him off. “If he’s simply just a very nice person, and isn’t trying to kiss your ass, (pardon the expression), because he likes you as a friend, then he’d also be unlikely to freak out and not want to spend any more time with you either… yes?”

Aziraphale had to admit that she had a point. He nodded reluctantly. 

“ _And_ ! If he _is_ bisexual, or even a longtime bicurious guy, maybe you’ll get laid!”

“Anathema!” Aziraphale scolded her, but only half seriously, because the other half of him was loving hearing _anyone_ mention the possibility of him having sex with Crowley. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t sleep with him. It would ruin my marriage, _and_ Gabriel’s career.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Azi! Who cares about Gabriel’s fucking career!” Anathema’s eyes were flashing as she yelled at him while making exasperated motions with both hands at the camera. “I hate to have to be the one to say this, but you’ve done _far_ too much to help that man and his precious career. You _moved to another country_ , gave up your own business, and basically live like a monk, up in the Catskills just so Gabriel can have his precious fucking career. I think it’s high time you look after your own happiness.”

Aziraphale was dumbfounded. No one had ever said this to him before, that he’d sacrificed too much, that he deserved better. He supposed this was the case because this was the most honest he’d ever been about the issues in his marriage. Before now, he’d either defended Gabriel to his friends (who thought Gabriel was self centered and demanding… and he _was_ ), or he just didn’t mention his problems at all, not wanting to burden others. Perhaps not wanting to admit to himself that he had them in the first place? He knew that the minute he said a negative thing about his husband, that Anathema and Deirdre and Tracy would agree with him. He knew that they had never quite approved of him. Not after he’d told them he’d be leaving them and moving to the US to help Gabriel with his career. 

_But what about your lovely bookshop?_ Madam Tracy had asked, her voice tremulous and sad. _You’ve worked so hard to build it up and it makes you so happy._

_What about us?_ Deirdre had gripped him by the shoulders, her eyes filling with tears on the day he’d said he would be leaving in two weeks to follow his new husband to New York. _Does he know he’s asking you to leave your friends behind?_

He’d wanted to break down crying and promise them he’d never leave. That no marriage was more important than his beloved friends, who’d helped him to grow and to see himself as a person worthy of love. Friends that had supported him through adversity for over a decade. He’d wanted to say it, but instead had muttered _I’ll miss you all so much,_ and tried to ignore the hurt in their eyes. 

Now, three years later, looking up into the digital image of Anathema’s concerned face, still pulled up into a mask of indignation on his behalf, he broke down for real. He burst into tears and put his hands over his face, feeling his shoulders shake with long-suppressed sobs. 

“Oh sweetie,” he heard Anathema’s careful, achingly kind voice, trying to sooth him from across the ocean. “Sweetie, I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no. It’s alright,” he stammered with a sniffle, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat, trying to pull himself together. “It’s just the shock of...of... admitting it, of hearing someone else say it.” he explained falteringly. “My marriage _is_ in serious trouble. Crowley is lovely, but he’s just a symptom of a bigger problem.”

“I agree sweetie. What do you want to do next?”

“I’m honestly not sure, my darling. But I’m ever so glad you were here to listen and smack some sense into me. I needed that.”

“Anytime you want to be slapped around, I’m your girl,” Anathema grinned deviously at him and he chuckled warmly. 

“I knew I could count on you.” he said, smiling his first genuine smile since the conversation began. 

They chatted a bit more before she heard a crash in the other room and excused herself warmly but hurriedly, being that Rafael had apparently knocked over something large and breakable. 

Aziraphale disconnected the call and sat for a moment, letting the contents of her words sink in. Yes, things were not going swimmingly right now. He simply needed to decide what course of action was best to take next. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Minor mentions of childhood sexual abuse. Minor mentions of domestic violence and drug abuse. 
> 
> CW: Misgendering

Crowley said good afternoon to Aziraphale and trudged toward the door to his flat. Lunch had been  _ too good _ . Yes, the food had been delicious, but Crowley had hardly noticed, what with Aziraphale sitting across from him, making those ridiculously erotic noises while he ate, flicking those large, stormy eyes at Crowley’s face every few seconds, as if he couldn’t look away. It was too fucking much. When their hands had touched over the bill, Crowley thought his heart might actually stop beating from the shocking pleasure of the feel of Aziraphale’s silky soft hand under his own. Dear lord how he’d wished he could simply take that hand in his, interlace their fingers like couples did. Like  _ real _ couples did on  _ real  _ lunch dates. 

But they weren’t a couple. They could never be a couple. He’d never be able to hold Aziraphale’s hand like he longed to do. Not without ruining Aziraphale’s life, or possibly his own as well. He could just see it now. The screaming row between Gabriel and Aziraphale. Being ordered to leave the premises and the threats that would follow. Gabriel would trash him publicly. He’d drag Crowley’s name through the mud faster than Crowley could pack his bags. And poor Aziraphale? God only knew what sorts of horrid, passive aggressive punishments Gabriel would have in store for his unfaithful husband. It wasn’t worth it. 

Or was it? Crowley couldn’t suppress a fantasy that blossomed swiftly inside his love-drunk brain. A fantasy of him running off with Aziraphale, back to London. Crowley could find work somewhere, somewhere that wouldn’t care if some poncy American hippy had trashed him on social media. He could just see himself, stopping by Aziraphale’s bookshop everyday to bring him lunch, to give him warm kisses and wrap his arms around Aziraphale from behind and bury his face in that soft, soft looking hair. 

_ Yeah right _ he thought to himself, swiftly working to dispel the hazy dream of a happy life with Aziraphale. He couldn’t very well confess his love for his employer’s husband, ask the man to give up his wealthy, comfortable existence as the spouse of a beloved celebrity and live in obscurity in a bookshop with him. He’d never even told Aziraphale he fancied men, or that he fancied  _ Aziraphale _ for that matter. What if his instincts were wrong, and Aziraphale was just being nice? There were times he could swear he saw a heated longing in Aziraphale’s eyes, but what if Aziraphale only wanted to shag? What if he’d done this before? Had a thing on the side to wile away the hours when his husband was away on trips. What if he slammed the door in Crowley’s face? Or worse. What if he were  _ kind. _ Crowley could just picture it now.

_ So sorry dear boy. I’d love a shag, but I’m not leaving all this to run off with my husband’s gardener. _

And there were still a lot of things Aziraphale didn’t know about Crowley. Chiefly, the hustling. The fact that he’d had sex for money with a variety of men over the course of a year or so back in his early 20s. What would someone like Aziraphale make of Crowley’s past life? His connection to street toughs and prostitutes and drug addicts. His scrapping and squatting and petty theft? 

Crowley gritted his teeth as he climbed the stairs to his flat, shed his chauffeur jacket and hung it on the hook by the door. He put the take out containers from Aziraphale into the fridge, and couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the man insisting that he take them. It felt suspiciously like being cared for, and that _ turned Crowley on _ . 

He needed to get down to the greenhouse to finish up some things for the day, and so he grabbed his cell phone and prepared to head back to work. It was then that he saw the text message from ‘Beez’.

He felt his stomach clench up a little like it did whenever he heard from his sibling. Beez, for many years had only reached out sporadically, and it had always been for things they’d needed. Money. A place to stay. A bottle of booze when they were too hard up to buy heroin. He remembered picking them up from jail when they’d been brought in for selling or buying drugs. He remembered picking them up from an enraged girlfriend’s house after getting dumped yet again for being an untrustworthy addict. It had been a couple of years since he’d talked to them, more than a decade since they’d seen one another, and at that time when they’d spoken by phone two years ago, Beez had said they were headed to rehab. Crowley though, had heard that story before from many an addict. He had no idea what to expect from this text message, but he assumed it would be some sort of favor or request for aid. 

What he saw when he opened the text though, had his mouth dropping open in surprise.

**_Hey man, it’s me. I’m at port authority. If I catch a bus out there, would you pick me up?_ **

Crowley grimaced and let his thumb hover over the call icon on his phone. What the fuck was Beez doing in the states? In New York City? It was just like them to show up out of the blue, demanding money or help with no explanation, and Crowley wasn’t prepared to deal with that right now. But prepared or not, Beez was sitting on some wobbly bench in a port authority terminal hallway, waiting to hear back from him. He couldn’t very well leave them there. 

He hit the green phone icon and waited, stomach clenching further, for his wayward sibling to pick up. 

“Hey,” they said, casual and disaffected like always. 

“Beelzebub, what are you doing here?!” Crowley tried not to let exasperation color his tone, and failed. 

“Good to hear from you too Anthony,” they replied archly.

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. 

“Then don’t call me  _ Beelzebub _ ,” they snapped back. 

“Fair point,” he admitted. “So, what brings you to the big apple?”

“Da’s dead,” Beez replied without ceremony. 

Crowley wasn’t sure how to respond. He felt no emotional reaction to the news. “H-how?” he stammered, surprised nonetheless by the suddenness of what Beez had said. But that was always their way wasn’t it? Blunt, cynical, a prickly pear of a person who never pulled punches. 

“Heart attack,” they replied curtly. “Guess all that anger finally did im in, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Ok. that makes sense,” Crowley nodded. “When did you find out?”

“Hospital called last week. I had a heck of a time dealing with the situation. But I got him cremated.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner!” Crowley hissed, gripping his mobile too tightly in his hand. 

“Because I knew you’d go all mental and I’d have to calm you down, and I didn’t feel like dealing with it.” They sighed heavily into the mouthpiece. “You’d have demanded that I give you all the details and you’d have made a right nuisance of yourself.”

“So you had him cremated? Did he want that?” Crowley asked, relenting, going a bit numb inside.

“Yeh,” Beez replied. “He always said he didn’t want to waste space and money by being buried in a coffin. And look at it this way, now we can get pissed and scatter him somewhere truly horrible that he’d hate. Like… Disney World?”

“Wait…” Crowley swiftly put together a few disparate pieces of information. “You  _ brought his ashes with you _ ?!”

“Course I did,” they replied, with a tone that suggested that showing up on one’s big brother’s veritable doorstep from another country with the cremated remains of their recently deceased father, without a hint of warning were normal, everyday behavior. 

“Shit, Beez. Why’d you do that?”

“Like I said!” They were yelling a bit now, getting tired of his criticisms of their ridiculous behavior. “I wanted us to have the chance to bond a bit! Is that so wrong? We can grab a bottle of something, get soused and sprinkle him in like… I don’t know, the queerest place we can think of? Does RuPaul have a property in New York state?” They asked, sounding genuinely curious. 

“Jesus Beez,” Crowley pushed a hand through his hair, then massaged the bridge of his nose. “Are you catching a bus soon? You need to get one headed to Poughkeepsie.”

“Fuck! Is  _ that _ how you pronounce that? No wonder the ticket attendant looked at me like I’d grown two heads.”

Crowley smiled despite himself. Beez could be infuriating, but he’d missed their irreverent, dry sense of humor and their insane unflappableness. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s pronounced ‘puh-KIP-see.’”

“Well, if you’ll pick me up, I can get on a bus in fifteen minutes.”

Crowley did some quick math in his head. “It's quarter after four. If you get on the bus at half past, you’ll get here by six. I can be there in plenty of time to pick you up.”

“Alright then. Da and I will see you soon,” they smirked, then, “Thanks, Crowley.” 

“Fine. See you soon,” Crowley rang off and let out an exasperated sigh. He unlocked his phone again and typed out a text message to Aziraphale. 

**_Hi, had a slight family emergency. Do you have a minute?_ **

The reply came back only thirty seconds later

**_Certainly. I’ll meet you out front._ **

Crowley grabbed his car keys, his leather jacket for when he was off duty and his sunglasses and headed downstairs to meet Aziraphale in front of the house. He beat the other man there, and waited for a minute or two, scuffing the toe of his boot into the blacktop, nervously shifting from foot to foot. He was certain Aziraphale would be fine with him taking the car to get Beez, but he needed to explain a bit first, and get permission for an overnight guest. 

The side door of the house swung open and Aziraphale came out, looking a bit more rumpled than usual. As he got closer, Crowley noticed that his eyes were red, as if he’d been crying.

“Are you alright?” he asked, suddenly concerned. Had he done something wrong at lunch? Had Azirpahale had a bad call with Gabriel?

“I’m fine dear boy. Perfectly fine. Now, what’s this about a family emergency?” his kind eyes were full of concern, and Crowley instantly regretted the use of the word ‘emergency.’

“My uh, my sibling, they sort of showed up on the doorstep just now. They’re at port authority in the city, boarding a bus to Poughkeepsie. It appears our father has passed on.” And upon seeing Aziraphale’s face bloom into alarmed sympathy, he put up a cautioning hand and hurried to explain. “No need to offer condolences. The man was a twat. A truly horrid person. He beat me and treated Beez like shit. So… there’s that.”

Aziraphale’s look of concern turned to one of surprise, then recognition. “Ah, I see,” he said, folding his hands at his waist, giving Crowley time and space to explain further. 

“So, my sister, well, rather my  _ sibling _ , they prefer gender neutral pronouns, they sort of flew here without telling me, with our father’s ashes in tow. And they need a place to stay for probably a few days, a week at the most. Would that be OK with you? With Gabriel? They’re pretty quiet and keep to themself.”

“Oh certainly!” Aziraphale gave him the tenderest, most understanding smile, and Crowley’s heart melted just a little bit. “Gabriel won’t mind at all. And of course neither shall I. It’s clearly marked in the lease that overnight guests are allowed with permission. Though, I doubt it would be alright for her-” here he caught himself and redirected “-for  _ them _ rather, to stay for more than a week.”

“That’ll be fine!” Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll make sure to send them on their way sooner than later. Thank you Aziraphale,” he added, smiling. “This means a lot.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale responded with a nod. “If your sibling needs anything from the house, food or extra towels, sheets and pillows… all you have to do is ask.”

“Oh, well…” Crowley hadn’t thought about all that yet. “That would actually be great. The sheets and towels I mean. I hadn’t planned to have a guest.”

“Right then! I’ll put together some things and leave them just inside the side door here for you. I’ll leave it unlocked, so you can come pick it up whenever they get settled.”

Crowley smiled and huffed out a sigh of relief. “Thanks angel,”  _ damn it! Why did he have to keep calling the man that? _ “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention it. Do you… want company for the ride over?” Aziraphale offered hesitantly.

“Oh, thanks, but I’ll be fine. I think we should have some alone time to talk family stuff.”

“Of course, of course. I understand. I’ll see you later,” Aziraphale smiled warmly again and turned away to head back to the house. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley caught himself reaching after the man and let his hand drop as Aziraphale turned around with an expectant look.

“Seriously, thank you so much. I’ve a complicated family situation, and I’m really grateful for your help.”

“My pleasure dear. My pleasure,” Aziraphale grinned again and nodded before turning away and walking back inside, closing the door gently behind him. 

______________________________________

Crowley jumped in the car and headed for the highway, his insides full of nerves at the thought of seeing his unusual and difficult sibling again for the first time in over ten years. He prayed they’d gotten off the junk, but hearing them talk about getting soused wasn’t promising. Didn’t addicts have to swear off all drugs and alcohol to recover? He supposed he’d find out. He’d hate to bring a chaotic, disruptive force into his employers’ lives, but something told him Beez was clean. They didn’t have that far away, emotionless tone to their voice they’d always had before when they were using. They’d seemed clear headed and concise on the phone (if cynical, but that was par for the course where Beez was concerned).

The drive went quickly and soon, he was pulling up at the bus station in Poughkeepsie. There Beez was, leaning against a pillar near the entrance, seeming perfectly at ease in their black suit jacket, black trousers and dark blue, men’s button down shirt. Their hair was still the untamable, black mop it always was, and their sleeves were rolled halfway up, showing the dark patterns of multiple tattoos going up both forearms. They were smoking a cigarette and looking unimpressed. 

“You look like a New Yorker,” he said as he strolled up to them. 

“Hey,” they replied, giving him a shy smile. “How’ve you been?”

They didn't hug. Beez had never been a hugger. He patted them on the arm a bit awkwardly and offered to take their bag. 

“Thanks,” they replied, handing it over. “Bloody thing weighs a ton. Thought my shoulder would fall off going through the airport. 

“You fly into Newark?” he asked.

“Yeh,” they said, falling into step at his side as he made his way back to the car. 

“How was your flight?”

“Eh. Alright. You know I hate to fly.”

Crowley had lots of questions, but he wanted to get back to the car and out of Poughkeepsie before he asked them. “You hungry?” he asked instead. We can stop on the way and get something? Or, I have some leftover Indian at my place.”

“Leftover Indian sounds great,” they said.

Once Crowley had navigated the crowded streets of downtown Poughkeepsie, and gotten them onto the highway, he broached the subject of Beez’s sudden appearance.

“Seriously Beez, what are you doing here?” he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle. 

“I told you already. I haven’t seen you in forever, and Da passed away. He left me some money, and you too. We can talk details later. Nothing too impressive. But enough to buy a plane ticket and keep me supported for a few months while I look for a new job. Thought a trip to the states to see my big brother and put our father to rest would be appropriate.”

“You really want to scatter his ashes here? In the states?”

“Yes,” they replied, the soul of sincerity. “I think he’d have hated that, and that honestly makes me happy.” They fell silent for a moment before speaking up again, their voice going low and uncomfortable. “Did you know, he tried to touch me when I was little?”

“Jesus Beez. No,” Crowley’s stomach dropped and his throat suddenly had a sad lump stuck in it. “You never told me that.”   
  


“Course I didn’t, did I? What would you have done? He was already beating the piss out of you on the regular.” 

“But, I could’ve… I don’t know. I could’ve protected you somehow. For fuck’s sake Beez. Why didn’t you tell me? I’m your big brother, that was supposed to be my job!” He felt tears spring to his eyes and blinked them away, struggling to focus on the suddenly blurry traffic around them as he drove. 

“It was OK... I mean,” they amended, “It  _ wasn’t _ OK, but it didn’t go anywhere. He tried to do something once, and I started screaming bloody murder, and then he stopped trying. Must have been afraid he’d get caught or I’d tell. He said something about missing mum. The sick fucker.”

“Yeah,” agreed Crowley. “Let’s scatter the bastard somewhere he’d truly hate.” He was now fully on board with this plan.

“Glad you approve,” Beez said with a sly smile. “So,” they went on, “what’ve you been up to here? Heard you had a sweet job with some wealthy married couple.”

“I do,” Crowley replied, but his voice must have failed to hide the note of discomfort that leaked into it, for Beez latched on and dug in.

“What’s going on?” they asked, eyes narrowing. “You’re in some sort of trouble, I can tell.”

“Jesus Beez, fucking relax will you? Nothing’s wrong.”

“Except that you're lying,” they said, calm as anything, looking out the window in a show of disinterest that wasn’t fooling Crowley in the slightest. 

“Fine. It’s a good job. A stellar job in fact. The guy I work for is a celebrity. A new agey author who does meditative relationship counseling, wrote a series of books on keeping your marriage happy. Only… “ he paused here, unsure of how to continue. “The issue is… I’ve sort of… become friends with his husband,” he spat out in a rush, not looking in Beez’s direction.

“Friends?” they drawled casually, and Crowley had never heard a human being put that much sarcasm into one word before. 

“ _ Yes Beez, _ friends. We’re  _ friends _ … only I… well…”

“Oh shit Crowley, seriously? You went and fell for your  _ bosses’ husband _ ?”

Crowley was half irritated, but also just a tiny bit impressed by his younger sibling’s uncanny insight. “Yes,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Only thing is, he thinks I’m straight. Which is a godsend under the circumstances, because I’m pretty sure he likes me as more than a friend as well. And this way, what with him thinking I’m unavailable, I’ve been able to keep a lid on the situation.”

“Why did you tell him you were straight? Seriously Crowley? After all we’ve had to do to get LGBT recognition, and you go and lock yourself back in the closet?”

“Listen!” Crowley didn’t need a lecture from his sibling, who’d spent at least the last decade in and out of rehab centers and codependent relationships. “I didn’t tell him  _ anything _ . I just mentioned Liz, my last girlfriend, and they both assumed I was straight… he and his husband that is.”

“Why do people always do that?” Beez remarked with a frustrated sigh, but at least they’d left off scolding him. 

“Anyway, so there’s all this tension between us, and I can’t act on it, or I’ll ruin his marriage and lose this incredible job. Things are a bit… precarious is all. So, whatever you do, please don’t mention my history with men.”

“Oh, so  _ don’t _ mention the fact that you were shacked up with a man for four bloody years before you came to the states? Don’t mention Oliver? Or Will?”

“Look, Beez, this isn’t the time for me to be out and proud. Not time to wave the bi flag while my job depends on my employers assuming that I’m hetero.”

“You’re an idiot,” Beez remarked in a friendly fashion.    
  
“Thanks,” Crowley responded. 

A stiff silence fell between them for a few minutes before Beez spoke up again. “This husband, is he the violent type?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Crowley. “He’s not going to beat the piss out of me, but he has a lot of connections with other very wealthy, very influential people. He could ruin my reputation. Also, did I mention that he’s a complete and utter wanker? Biggest twat I’ve ever met… other than the one currently taking up residence in your suitcase,” he added with a sardonic chuckle. 

“And what’s the husband like?” Beez asked.

Crowley suppressed the urge to gush. “He’s fantastic. Kind. Caring, funny. Just lovely all around.”

“Yeah, you’ve got it bad,” they said, completely unnecessarily.

“Thanks for your professional assessment.”

“So, as you can see, it’s a precarious situation. I’d really appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut about my sexual orientation, and about the fact that I’m smitten over this man. You could really mess things up for me if you don’t.”

“Don’t you trust me?” they asked, though there was clearly a spark of humor in their eyes because they both knew that not only did Crowley not 100% trust them, but that they’d done precious little over the course of their relationship with their brother to actually  _ earn _ his trust. They relented swiftly though, adding, “I promise. Won’t say a word.”

Crowley allowed himself permission to relax a little upon hearing his sibling’s promise. Maybe this wouldn’t end in catastrophe? 

The rest of the drive was spent chatting about Beez’s life back in London. How they’d yet again met  _ the one _ , only to find out that their most current girlfriend had cheated on them with her supervisor from work. They’d sworn off dating for a while, gotten a job as a barista in a local coffee shop and had started trying to find higher paying work. 

“Are you clean?” Crowley had asked, barely suppressing a flinch. 

“Mostly,” replied Beez.

“ _ Beez _ ,” Crowley warned, “I can’t let you stay with me if you're holding. It’s not right. I-”

“Calm down,” they said, “I drink now and again, but I haven’t touched the dope in two years. You can relax and drop the worried brother routine.”

“I’ll stop the worried brother routine when you consistently stop giving me things to worry about,” he quipped back. “Congrats by the way, on two years sober. That couldn’t have been easy.”

“Yeah, it was rough at first. But this is the longest I’ve gone without using. My record before now was two weeks, so I feel like I have a fighting chance to stay clean. The booze isn’t really my thing, so I can get drunk now and again without it being a problem.”

“Yeah. Same here,” Crowley nodded. “After seeing Da be such an utter shit when he drank, I never developed much of an urge to go down that road.”

“What’s the house like? Where do we stay?” Beez asked, changing the subject.

“Oh it’s fucking fantastic,” Crowley enthused. “It’s this massive, beautifully maintained Victorian mansion out in the woods, and we’re staying in my flat above the garage. It’s spacious and nice, and you can sleep on the sofa.”

“Sounds great,” they replied. “Thanks Crowley. I appreciate it. I really do. I… I missed you. Da dying made me want to connect with the only family I’ve got left.”

“Glad you’re here,” Crowley said, and realized that he meant it. 


	11. Chapter 11

Aziraphale carefully picked out a nice set of Egyptian cotton, high thread count sheets, two down feather pillows and a warm comforter, along with a spare, unopened toothbrush and put them in a plastic bag right inside the back door. 

He was curious about this sibling of Crowley’s. Would they look like Crowley? Would they sound anything like him? He wondered why this person hadn’t been a regular part of Crowley’s life before now, or at least why he’d mentioned them so rarely. 

An hour and a half after Crowley left, Aziraphale saw the headlights of the car sweeping back onto the property and felt a little thrill of excitement. There hadn’t been a new person on the grounds in a while. And this person was directly related to, shared DNA with  _ Crowley _ . They’d been children together, and had (presumably) spent a good bit of time together over the course of their lives. Seeing Crowley’s sibling would tell Aziraphale even more about Crowley. 

And aside from helping him get to know Crowley better, which was, in and of itself sort of a self defeating endeavor, Aziraphale had always enjoyed meeting new people. He wasn’t necessarily a social butterfly, but he liked people quite a bit, and he’d only been speaking to Crowley, Gabriel, the book club ladies and the staff for a long time now. A new person was exciting!

He didn’t want to assume that he’d be given an in person introduction, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t made sure to be sitting at the kitchen table  _ on purpose _ with a cup of tea and a book when they’d pulled in. This way, the white set of shelves, festooned with bundles of decorative herbs and a selection of different cooking oils, would block his view to the kitchen door. He was close by enough to hear if Crowley called to him (which he might do if he saw the kitchen light on - it being the only light on in this part of the house), but gave Crowley the option to also just grab the bag of bedclothes without chatting if he so wished.

It also wasn’t lost on him, due to his recent reread of Pride and Prejudice for the book club meeting, that he was proverbially pinching his cheeks and putting on his best dress and positioning himself close to where a handsome gentleman caller might stop by and see him. He felt silly, but he wasn’t above engineering a chance to see Crowley again and to meet his mysterious sibling. 

His heart leapt a little when he heard the kitchen door creak open. He heard a crinkling of the plastic bag as Crowley picked it up, then...a pause.

“Aziraphale?” A cautious voice called out, and Aziraphale felt a flash of giddy triumph that his Austen-esque ruse had worked. 

“Mmm?” He hummed, loud enough to be heard, but hoping to sound as if he were busy with something, rather than waiting by the door like a nineteenth century maiden.

“Hey,” the door creaked further and Azirpahale heard footsteps. He doubled down intensely on his ‘casually reading’ act as he saw Crowley round the set of shelves from the corner of his eye. He looked up, distractedly and smiled, as if he hadn’t been awaiting Crowley’s arrival with bated breath for a solid four minutes. 

“Crowley! Hello!” he exclaimed. “How was your trip to pick up your sibling?”

“It went well. Hey, do you want to come meet them?” 

“Oh, well, certainly, that would be lovely,” Aziraphale said _ ,  _ as he put a bookmark in the volume of poems he’d been pretending to read and rose to follow Crowley out to the driveway. 

A small, dark haired person in a black suit jacket and tight, dark slacks stood in the gathering dusk outside the door to Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale could tell they at least had similar taste in clothing. 

“Beez, this is Aziraphale. He and his husband Gabriel own this property. Aziraphale, this is my sibling, Beez.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Beez,” Azirpahale said in his friendliest tone and extended a hand in greeting. Beez took it and gave him a surprisingly firm handshake for how small they were. They barely came up to Aziraphale’s shoulder and were quite slim. 

“Yeah. Nice to meet you too,” Beez mumbled, looking shy. In the dim light, it was difficult to make out their features enough to see if they shared any similarities with Crowley. Their face appeared small and elf-like. This, with along with their androgynous appearance combined to make them look a little bit otherworldly. 

“I hope you’ll be comfortable staying with Crowley in his apartment. Please feel free to stop by tomorrow morning for coffee and some breakfast. I can have the cook make extra eggs.”

“Oh, that’d be nice,” Beez replied, with a ghost of a smile flickering across their face. They seemed like a shy animal, unsure of whether to stay and chat with Aziraphale or scamper off upstairs to Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale decided to put them out of their misery.

“Lovely. Well, don’t let me keep the two of you. If you need anything at all, you just let me know.” He smiled warmly at both of them. 

“Beez,” Crowley said, “you can head on up. Just put this bag on the sofa upstairs. I want a minute to talk to Aziraphale.” Beez nodded, opening his door and ascending up into the darkness. “Lightswitch is at the top of the stairs to the left!” Crowley yelled up after them before turning back to Aziraphale and taking his shades off. 

“Hey, look,” he said, dropping his voice. “Like I said before, they brought our father’s ashes here in their carry on. They want us to go scatter them somewhere frightfully disrespectful, and they want to spend some time getting to know me again. We haven’t seen one another for a decade. They’ll be out of here in a few days.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Aziraphale jumped in with a raised hand. “They can stay for a while. It’s not a problem. And don’t worry about informing Gabriel. I’ll let him know. He’ll be fine with it. He’s barely here himself as it is.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, and the warmth in his voice had Aziraphale feeling a bit unsteady on his feet. 

“Don’t mention it. Will the two of you join me for breakfast tomorrow?” 

“I’ll insist on it,” Crowley replied with a grin. 

“Very well, have a nice evening.”

“Goodnight, angel.” 

Aziraphale turned away so Crowley wouldn’t see the massive smile on his face at hearing his nickname yet again. He hoped it was here to stay. He had a secret plan to act very naturally whenever Crowley called him ‘angel’, as if it didn’t make his knees weak, all so that Crowley would keep calling him that, over and over. 

He walked, only slightly unsteadily back to the house, making a mental note to ask Agnes to make extra food for tomorrow’s breakfast. It took an inordinately long time for his smile to fade. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: more minor mentions of drug addiction and domestic violence

The next morning, Crowley and Beez made their way over to Aziraphale’s kitchen at 9 for breakfast. Crowley had confirmed by text what the best time to show up was, and they arrived just as Agnes was putting a massive platter of bacon, eggs, buttered toast and fried potatoes down on the table. 

Aziraphale introduced Crowley and Beez to Agnes who nodded politely and accepted multiple compliments on the veritable pile of delicious looking food she’d provided them before ducking into the kitchen again for a carafe of coffee and cups.

“Wow,” said Beez, sounding genuinely impressed as they surveyed the large spread of food before them, “this is epic.” 

“Thanks for the invite,” Crowley added, sitting down and reaching for a piece of buttered toast. 

“My pleasure,” Aziraphale had already loaded up a plate with eggs, bacon, toast and potatoes and was preparing to tuck in. “I know you don’t often cook over at your flat, and now that you have company… it seemed only right to ask you to breakfast with me.”

“Must be nice having a cook,” Beez said as they put two pieces of bacon, a scoop of eggs and two pieces of toast on their plate and began to construct a sandwich with them.

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Beez, suspicious that they might intend to be sarcastic, but one glance at their face, neutral, guileless and focused on making themselves an egg sandwich, told him their comment had been sincere.

“Yes, yes it is. Though I won’t lie, it took me quite a while to grow accustomed to it. But neither of us cook, and well, _I_ at least love to eat, and so it seemed the most practical solution.”

“Your husband doesn’t like to eat?” Beez asked mildly. Another sharp glance from Crowley turned up only simple curiosity. Why was Beez being so polite?

Perhaps because they seemed to genuinely like Aziraphale. And very quickly too. Beez had never been known for their sunny disposition, nor their ability to make new friends. Crowley had no idea how they managed to land such a long succession of beautiful girlfriends. _Probably because they’re all nutters,_ he thought uncharitably, remembering all the fights and the drama that usually came along with Beez’s romantic relationships.

Last night though, after he’d made his way upstairs, Beez had been waiting for him with a huge grin on their face, hands on hips where they stood by the sofa. 

_Are you kidding me?_ They’d said.

_What?_ Crowley hadn’t really been in the mood for games.

_You didn’t tell me your boss’s husband was so fucking adorable,_ They’d grinned at him in that knowing way that always drove Crowley up the wall. 

_Yeah. that fact wasn’t entirely lost on me_ he’d snarked back while beginning to unfold the sheets and make up the sofa for Beez to spend the night. 

_I mean, like I don’t think I’ve ever met someone that you could tell was so … I don’t know,_ good _on such a fundamental level. Where’s his halo?_

_You really like him?_ Crowley had asked, eyebrows lifting in shock. Beez rarely seemed to like anyone. They barely tolerated Crowley for christ’s sake. 

_Yeah, I really do,_ they’d replied without an ounce of sarcasm. _He practically glows. I don’t blame you for being besotted._

“Oh, I suppose Gabriel likes to eat well enough, but he’s always on some fast or some special diet. He’s ever so health conscious.” 

Aziraphale’s response jolted Crowley out of memories of Beez’s compliments from last night, in time to see his sibling roll their eyes dramatically at Aziraphale’s description of Gabriel’s eating routines. He was tempted to kick them under the table, but settled for glaring at them when he was sure Aziraphale couldn’t see. 

“I on the other hand,” Aziraphale continued with just the smallest hint of shame coloring his tone, “I love eating too much. It’s honestly my favorite pastime outside of reading.” His tone made Crowley want to grab him and hug him until that shame melted away and never came back.

Crowley was swiftly gearing up to reassure Aziraphale that he could eat whatever he damn well pleased, as often as he damn well pleased, when Beez surprisingly beat him to the punch. 

“Nah, fuck that,” Beez said around a mouthful of egg and bacon sandwich. “You eat whatever you want. You’re gorgeous. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Crowley,” they turned to their brother with an obviously mischievous glint in their pale blue eyes, “Don’t you think Aziraphale looks great just the way he is?” They raised their eyebrows at him, looking the picture of innocence and this time, Crowley _did_ press his foot down on top of theirs in warning.

“Oh yeah,” he replied, already feeling his face warming at being asked to say something out loud he thought privately about saying virtually every other minute of the day. “He’s just fine the way he is.” Internally, he thought of all the adjectives he hadn’t used, _delicious, sexy, gorgeous, delectable, adorable, smoking hot…_ the list went silently on and on unabated as he watched Aziraphale’s face from behind his shades.

This, admittedly far more lukewarm praise than he’d truly wanted to say, still seemed to please Aziraphale, who blushed prettily as he took another bite of bacon and chewed enthusiastically. “Why thank you, both of you. I appreciate the reassurance. Perhaps you could speak to my husband about that when you get a chance.” 

“Hey, watch what you ask for around my sibling,” Crowley warned. “They have an underdeveloped sense of sarcasm and will often do as requested while ignoring subtext.” He pressed down a bit further on Beez’s foot with his own and re-established his warning glare at them as they happily kept eating and looked back at him with an utterly innocent seeming smile on their elfin face. 

“So,” Aziraphale began, putting down his fork and lacing his fingers under his chin while looking over at Beez, “What was Crowley like as a child? You have inside information. Care to let me in on any secrets he’s holding back on. Did he believe in Santa? Did he have a blankie?”

“Oh, I can tell you all sorts of dirt on Crowley, but I’ll save that for when he’s not around,” Beez winked at Aziraphale and Aziraphale giggled and smiled his megawatt smile. 

Crowley looked back and forth between them in dawning horror. “Oh no, no. You two are _not_ joining forces in an attempt to embarrass me. This is _not_ happening!” They both looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes and he glowered at them both. 

His sibling’s obvious enjoyment of his employer bought up a lot of mixed signals. On one hand, it was wondrous and unexpected. Beez liked so few people, and yet, they seemed positively delighted by Aziraphale. They’d completely dropped their spiky shell and were making school yard jokes with a man they’d just met last night for two minutes out in the driveway. Aziraphale liking Beez was less surprising, as the man seemed to like practically everyone. But Beez liking him back? That was unprecedented.

On the other hand, it made him very nervous, the two of them getting on like a house on fire. What if Beez slipped up and told Aziraphale things Crowley didn’t want him to know? What if they gave away too much? He supposed it was a risk he’d have to take. He was the one who’d constructed this carefully maintained false identity comprised of withheld information and half truths. And who was he to try and deny Beez a new friend?

Still, the sight of the two of them grinning at each other like fools made his stomach clench with mild anxiety. He hadn’t built up enough residual trust in his sibling after years of their lies and petty crimes and addiction issues. He remembered well waking up to an empty wallet the one time he’d let Beez spend the night. He remembered the screaming match that had ensued outside the pub where he’d met them over ten years ago when a girlfriend they’d stolen from had hunted them down. He’d had to pull the two of them apart and restrain the girlfriend, (Patricia was it?) from attempting to scratch Beez’s eyes out. 

Yes, he had a veritable movie reel of negative drug related memories where Beez was concerned. But… they’d told him they were clean hadn’t they? They’d really done it this time. And for two years! That was quite an accomplishment for a person that Crowley had been almost certain, had feared, would end up dead in a gutter somewhere before they turned forty.

He looked up at Aziraphale, who was listening patiently and intently to Beez describe their favorite movie (Terry Gilliam’s _Twelve Monkeys_ ) and realized that the conversation had gone on without him. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat back to listen for a while, silently enjoying the changing expressions on Aziraphale’s face as Beez explained the army of the twelve monkeys and went over in loving detail everything they adored about Brad Pitt’s character in the film. 

Breakfast lingered for a while, until the plates had been cleared away and far too many cups of coffee had been consumed. The conversation between the three of them flowed so easily, that Crowley barely noticed that it was already half past twelve. He cleared his throat meaningfully and announced that he’d have to head out to pick up Gabriel from the city soon. The man had requested a ride home at 3pm and so Crowley would have to head out a little early to beat the afternoon traffic before it ramped up into rush hour gridlock. 

He suddenly realized that he had a minor dilema on his hands. He couldn’t bring Beez with him. They’d _hate_ Gabriel, he just knew it. And it was unprofessional to bring his younger sibling along on a driving job regardless. He’d have to leave Beez here on their own.

He said as much to Aziraphale, who seemed far too happy with the prospect of spending more time with Crowley’s (normally) grouchy, prickly relative, who was at this moment drawing a pair of breasts on a napkin with a pen they’d grabbed from a cup on a nearby countertop and grinning to themself. 

“You don’t have to hang about with each other or anything,” Crowley said cautiously. “I just wanted to make sure it was OK for Beez to be on the grounds unattended while I’m at work.”

“I’m not a five year old,” Beez grumbled.

“No, you’re a 38 year old terror with too much time on their hands,” he replied without missing a beat. This at least drew a smile from his sibling.

“It’ll be no trouble Crowley,” Aziraphale piped up. “I’ll make sure they’re well cared for. We can have tea, or if Beez prefers, they can watch telly in your flat, or I can loan them a book to read.”

“See!” Beez beamed at Crowley with a broad smile that just _had_ to be put on to make him nervous, “I’ll be fine. No need to keep me under lock and key.”

“Great, whatever. I’ll head out to get Gabriel in twenty minutes. Back by six thirty or so. Beez, come talk to me for a minute before I take off.”

He ignored Beez’s long suffering eye roll as they got up from the table. They both thanked Aziraphale again and asked him to relay their thanks to Agnes for the lovely breakfast, then Beez followed Crowley outside and across the circular driveway to the doorway to Crowley’s flat. Crowley waited until they were both upstairs before turning on his sibling and gripping them by the shoulders. “Look,” he began, shaking them gently to get his point across. “You are not to discuss me with Aziraphale. You are _not_ to tell him anything about my feelings for him, or _anything_ about me liking men. _No mentions of Will_. No mentions of my past life. Just keep your mouth shut where this whole situation is concerned. Do you hear me?”

Beez glared up at him sullenly and twisted out of his grasp with a huff of frustration. “Look,” they said, putting a finger in the middle of Crowley’s chest and pushing firmly to help make their point. “I’m not your obedient performing monkey. I’ll talk about whatever I want with my _new friend_ Aziraphale. But…” they must have seen Crowley’s stricken, panicked look, for they added a caveat. “I’m not gonna spill the beans. Do you know how awkward and weird it would be for me to just come out and tell the man you want to get him naked? I just met him yesterday! As for you being bi, that’s also not really fodder for casual conversation either is it. At most, we’re gonna have tea and talk about books and movies.” They paused for a moment and Crowley could see the sincere look on their face. “Come on man. I don’t have a ton of friends, and Aziraphale is just the sweetest cream puff ever. You can’t order me about because you’re nervous that your little house of cards will come crashing down the minute I open my mouth.” 

Crowley let out a long suffering sigh and let his shoulders sag in defeat. “OK fine,” he said, stepping back and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I hope you two have a good time. I’ve got a four hour drive ahead of me, and half of it will involve me chauffeuring a wanker of epic proportions from downtown Manhattan to Athena NY in total silence, so excuse me while I go get ready.”

He stalked off to go dress in his usual black trousers, black t-shirt and black chauffeur jacket. He could wear whatever he wanted (along with the ever-present jacket) when he just drove Aziraphale around. It had become an unspoken thing rather quickly that his boss’s husband didn’t care a duck’s ears about what Crowley wore. But Gabriel had made a couple of choice comments about his “presentation” and how much he appreciated professionalism in what the employees wore, so black it was. Not that Crowley was complaining exactly. He lived in different shades of black most of the time. The simple fact that it was _Gabriel_ who required him to dress that way however, rankled. 

He heard Beez head back downstairs, to talk to their new best friend Aziraphale, and he felt the muscles in his upper back and neck tighten with anxiety. He simply had to trust that Beez knew well enough not to ruin things for him. 

He grabbed his keys, his wallet and his mobile phone, and after saying a brief prayer that his sibling behaved themselves, he headed down to the car.


	13. Chapter 13

Aziraphale wasn’t sure exactly who came up with the idea of day drinking first. He supposed it was he who had initially broached the subject, by bringing up mimosas. Beez had come back downstairs after their chat with Crowley and had thanked Aziraphale again for breakfast, which had led to a brief discussion of their favorite breakfast foods (crepes were brought up and evaluated), which in turn, led to Aziraphale touching on the topic of breakfast beverages. This naturally ended up in a discussion of the merits of champagne and orange juice. 

At this point, Beez had admitted that they’d never had a mimosa. Aziraphale, genuinely surprised, had mentioned casually that he and Gabriel actually had the ingredients to make one (an unopened bottle of champagne left over from some event at the house and a carton of orange juice in the fridge,) and would Beez like to try one now?

Two mimosas later however it was Beez’s idea to switch to wine. They’d been chatting away so amiably about any number of things. Aziraphale’s favorite books and movies. Beez’s favorite books and movies. Their thoughts on politics (extremely similar), their taste in clothing (chromatically different, and Beez’s clothes were decidedly more posh, but strangely similar in cut and style), and what the other thought about romance novels (Beez hated them and Aziraphale adored them). 

Aziraphale was impressed by how genuine Beez was. Here was a person who was one hundred percent  _ themself _ . Beez dressed how they wished, behaved how they wished, identified how they wished and didn’t give a care to the thoughts of others. They were so cavalier about things that terrified Aziraphale. Things like being combative or engaging in confrontations. And they knew that people saw them as a weirdo and a freak. That people, society at large kept trying to put Beez into a box that they just weren’t comfortable with. A box labeled ‘female’. And in response, Beez simply said “Who the fuck cares? Fuck everyone who won’t accept you for who you are.” 

Aziraphale, more than a little tipsy at this point, had raised his wine glass and clinked it against Beez’s and yelled “That’s right! Bugger anyone who won’t accept me for who I am!” and they’d both collapsed into giggles. Beelzebub had showed Aziraphale the massive tattoo of a housefly on their left bicep, calling it a ‘demon familiar’ and referencing some graphic novel Aziraphale had never heard of, and he'd oohed and ahhhed appropriately. He really  _ had _ been impressed by the beautiful detail of the artwork, if just a little confused as to why anyone would want a permanent image of a fly on their body. But, there was a generation gap between them, with Azirpahale being fifty and Beez in their late thirties, not to mention a vast gap in social culture, so there were probably lots of things Aziraphale just couldn’t understand about Beez’s life. 

By the time three o’clock rolled around, they were utterly trashed and had decided they’d be best friends for life. Aziraphale was sitting on a sofa in the living room where Gabriel usually held seminars and workshops, with Beez’s head resting on his knee. They were looking up at him through bleary eyes, asking questions, and he was talking about things he probably shouldn’t talk about. Namely Crowley. It was hard not to when he thought of the man semi-constantly, even when  _ not _ in a state of utter inebriation.

He recounted the story of how Crowley had rescued him from the obnoxious prats who’d mocked him on the street, that one evening earlier that year, and Beez clutched their stomach and howled in laughter until tears leaked out of their eyes. “That’s my brother!” they yelped through a wave of uncontrollable giggles. “I can believe it. I bet that was the first and only time he ever took that knife out of his pocket. He’s such a pacifist. I mean, back in the day, he’d get into fights. But he never started them, only fought so he wouldn’t get the piss beat out of him.” 

Aziraphale lost himself momentarily in a fantasy about street-tough Crowley.

“Yeah, he’s a lunatic, but I love im,” they said with a small laugh.

_ I do too _ , Aziraphale thought hopelessly. He almost said it out loud, but he didn’t. Instead, he brought up something else deeply emotionally affecting.

“I think my marriage is in serious trouble,” he confessed.

It was surprisingly easy to share with Beez. They didn’t judge like Gabriel, and they didn’t get stiff and awkward the way Crowley sometimes did. There was no sexual tension between Aziraphale and Beez. No agenda other than friendship. Beez was open and inquisitive, and yes, soused as well, which also didn’t hurt. 

And what’s more, the two were not employer and employee. Aziraphale realized that he was surrounded by people on a daily basis that Gabriel paid to take care of Aziraphale and see to his needs. He was sick of it (and he said as much, slurring gently as he did so.) He craved interaction with real friends, without the uncomfortable presence of money or obligation. And Beez was treating him to an afternoon of uncomplicated friendship. 

“He probably doesn’t mean to be distant,” Aziraphale continued, talking about his husband. “People get sick of one another. It just happens. The only thing is, I think perhaps that… and please don’t repeat this to anyone, but I think we’re in real trouble, Gabriel and I.” He was still sober enough to put coherent sentences together, though perhaps not sober enough to edit what he was saying. He didn’t really care at this point. Things in his household had been  _ tense _ for a long time. 

“Did you guys consider couple’s counseling?” Beez asked, absently poking at his bow tie with an exploratory finger. 

“Nahhhh,” Aziraphale shook his head in the too-fervent way of someone who’d had quite enough to drink, eyes squinted, lips pursed. “Gabriel would never admit to needing a therapist to solve his problems. He’s an ubermensch. He can solve all of his own problems.”

“An ubermensch huh?” Beez replied. “Sounds more like an arsehole.” 

“He certainly  _ can _ be that, yes,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding blearily. 

“So, no therapy. OK. Have you talked about it with him?” Beez asked next. They were a spectacular listener and asked good questions. Aziraphale found them very relaxing to be around. And of course the alcohol helped. 

“I...I’m afraid I simply don’t have the courage,” he responded. 

“Do you think he’d get angry? Hit you or something? If he does, I’ll beat him up for you. I swear I will.” They got an adorably determined, yet quite drunken look on their face and glowered protectively up at him from his lap.

Aziraphale imagined tiny Beez, throwing themself at his towering, muscular husband and chuckled. “No, I don’t think he’d be violent. He’s never put a hand on me before. And he hasn’t been putting hands on me for  _ any _ reason for a while now,” he said, morosely.

“No sex huh?” Beez asked.

“Well, not entirely  _ no  _ sex. But I have to be the one to get it started, and I can only summon up the energy to do that once every few weeks or so. And he’s out of town so often. It’s not the best way to keep a marriage alive is it?”

“What’s he doing out of town?” They asked.

“Television appearances. Magazine interviews. People who want to take pictures of him being…” he hiccuped gently “....insightful… or… spiritual… or what have you.”

“Huh,” Beez replied, tugging again absently at his bow tie. 

“Do you like my bow tie?” he asked

“Yeh. It’s cute.” They said with a smile. 

“Gabriel hates it. Told me so.”

“You deserve someone better,” Beez remarked, and the truth of that simple statement hit Aziraphale so strongly that he felt his chest constrict with the force of it. 

“Can you introduce me to anyone?” he asked, Crowley of course leaping to mind in a flurry of thoughts about red hair and narrow hips. Unfortunately, Crowley was off the table.

“What about my brother?” Beez said, as if they were a psychic, and Aziraphale’s heart began pounding so loudly he was sure they could hear it from their vantage point of having their head on his thigh.

“Oh, don’t be silly. He doesn’t fancy blokes. He’s straight, and you’re obviously quite drunk.”

Beez grew silent for a moment, as if they were thinking over something important. “Do you like him though?” They asked, gently, their voice had gone very careful, as if the answer was important.

“Do I like him?” Aziraphale knew he was stalling. He was pissed and vulnerable and madly in love with this person’s brother. This person who had their head in his lap and was looking up at him so earnestly. This person who he considered a new friend. “Well, of course I do,” he continued cautiously. “But like I said. He’s not interested in what I have in my trousers so, I’m afraid it’s not a match made in heaven.”

Beez let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, but you  _ like him _ right? I mean you  _ really _ like him?” they persisted. “I mean, do you think you’d like to date him?”

“Look, I’m drunk off my arse, as are you, and so I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Aziraphale said, proud of himself for not slurring. The part of his brain still responsible for rational thought was yelling at him to shut his mouth, but he couldn’t quite hear it through the clouds of Merlot that were currently making everything so warm and fuzzy. This, he and Beez’s little cocoon of intimacy and understanding on the sofa, it felt like a sacred, honest place. A place where he could stop hiding his feelings for five minutes. He’d been hiding them for a long time. His talk with Anathema had been the only time he’d ever admitted to his feelings for Crowley. In a solid year, he’d only told one other person. And now, Crowley’s  _ sibling _ was asking him how he felt. 

“My secret is…” he paused for just a minute, then made the final decision to commit to total openness. “My secret  _ is _ dear Beez, that I am completely and utterly in love with your brother. Head over heels. Besotted. Undone. Wrecked and ruined over him. It’s becoming painful and unmananageable-” he stumbled over the word, and it came out garbled, “and pathetic. And even if I weren’t married, he simply  _ can _ never and  _ would  _ never want me back.” This last part was accompanied by a deep sigh.

“And why won’t he want you back?” Beez asked, seeming strangely unsurprised by Aziraphale’s heartfelt confession. 

“Well, because he’s straight you silly goose,” he teased, trying to stop from getting misty eyed with inebriated self pity.

He expected them to stay silent, to give him some time to be sloppily morose about unrequited love. But they didn’t. Instead, they did something that surprised him. Beez foisted themself up out of Aziraphale’s lap and turned so that they were kneeling beside him on the sofa. Then they gently gripped him by the lapels of his jacket and stared deeply into his eyes. 

“My brother,” Beez said unsteadily, “is as straight as a ramen noodle.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Azirpahale’s addled brain couldn’t quite follow what they’d just said.

“My brother,” Beez said, gripping his lapels a little more tightly and swaying gently on their knees, still looking him dead in the eye, “is a  _ bisexual person _ ...” 

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide, as his brain slowly caught up with his ears and his heart began pounding in earnest. All of a sudden, several recent memories came flooding back to him, seen through a completely different lens, from a different perspective. 

_ Crowley’s hand on his when they both reached for the check and how he hadn’t pulled back right away _

_ Crowley, smiling oh so warmly at him over a plant they were working on together _

_ Crowley’s eyes meeting his and staying there a few seconds longer than he’d expected they would. _

“Oh,” he said, as his worldview shifted drastically underneath him. “Oh my.”

“Yeah,” remarked Beez. “The man likes cock.  _ A lot. _ I suppose one of us had to.” They shrugged before falling back to sit next to him on the sofa with a sigh.

Aziraphale was dumbfounded. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have not guessed? Anathema’s words, about people erasing bisexuality came back to him in a rush. He’d been blinded by Crowley’s mentions of female partners. And by his own disappointment and fear that someone like Crowley could never love him back. But now… now…. Crowley liked men.  _ Crowley liked men! _

“What am I going to do?” he said out loud.

“I don’t know. Maybe go tell him how you feel?” Beez suggested. “But please don’t let him know I told you. It really wasn’t my place to out him. Promised I wouldn’t,” they mumbled.

“He told you not to tell me?” Aziraphale was experiencing far too many emotions at once, and all of them were heightened by copious amounts of alcohol. “Why would he…”

“Listen, sweetheart, I’ve already told you too much, so, what I’d suggest is simply talk to him. You can’t know how he feels until you do that.” Beez got up from the couch and straightened their suit jacket. “I need to get going. Can’t spend the entire day drinking with you, much as I’d like to,” they smiled at him.

“But… but.” 

“Look, I’m sorry I said anything. I can see it’s confused you. I didn’t mean to do that. I like you a lot Aziraphale. I’ll see you later OK?” They were walking to the door, body language oozing discomfort and regret all of a sudden and Aziraphale scrambled to his feet.

“Wait!” He called out. “Don’t leave yet! I need to...I want to…” he failed to express all the thoughts and feelings that were rushing to get out of his mouth. 

“Talk to him!” Called Beez over their shoulder as they left through the kitchen door. It clicked softly shut behind them, and then Aziraphale was left alone, his ears ringing in the sudden silence from a combination of drunkenness and confusion. 

He went straightway to the kitchen and splashed some cold water on his face, then filled up a large glass and gulped it down, hoping to sober up before Gabriel came home. Before  _ Crowley _ came back with him. 

How could he face Crowley again, knowing the man might possibly return his feelings? Beez hadn’t confirmed that Crowley wanted him back. They hadn’t said anything about Crowley’s feelings at all, other than that he was attracted to men. 

_ Crowley was attracted to men _ , the mere thought threatened to make Aziraphale’s knees buckle where he stood, gripping the kitchen sink, face dripping, heart rattling away in his chest. Images of all the ways Crowley might express attraction for other men came flooding to his mind in a rush, and he moaned softly, leaning his elbows on the countertop next to the sink and dropping his face into his hands. 

It was then that he remembered Beez’s words,  _ don’t let him know I told you...promised I wouldn’t, _ and he felt his stomach twist with anxiety. What if Crowley had made his sibling promise not to spill the beans because he didn’t want Aziraphale thinking Crowley was an option? Because he found Aziraphale’s mooning over him irritating? 

Aziraphale, realizing he’d drive himself mad if he kept up this line of second guessing, decided instead to go upstairs and freshen up. He ran himself a hot shower, hoping to steam some of the wine and champagne out of his system, then had a strong cup of black tea. By the time six thirty rolled around, Agnes was most of the way through preparing dinner and Aziraphale was almost completely sober again.

He hadn’t been quite so successful in putting Crowley’s sexual orientation out of his mind however. If he were honest with himself though, he’d never been good at putting Crowley out of his mind, under any circumstances. He’d decided to go tell Crowley how he felt (his marriage be damned) six different times over the past hour and a half, and each time, he’d work himself up until he could picture himself raising his fist to knock on the door of Crowley’s flat, only to feel a spasm of fear and re-commit himself to hiding from the man until he quit the job and moved out. 

He heard Gabriel letting himself in the side door and his heart began pounding again. Were his feelings, his anxiety and desire and uncertainty, plain to see on his face? Would Gabriel guess something was up? Aziraphale huffed out a dejected sigh when he realized Gabriel was unlikely to notice.

He made his way downstairs from where he’d been pacing about in their bedroom, and went to greet his husband. His husband who never wanted to fuck him anymore. His husband who spent most of his time off the property. His husband who never seemed satisfied with anything Aziraphale said or did. Still, he had to give their connection another go. Had to try one more time to see if he could make his marriage work. He was inches away from throwing himself at another man, and that wasn’t a good place to be if one wanted to think clearly, to assess the situation and try to reconnect with one’s spouse. 

He could hear his parent’s voices, judgmental and sharp, echoing in his mind.

_ Follow god’s will, and above all Aziraphale, be faithful.  _

They’d often preached faithfulness throughout his childhood. Not to their son though. That is, not to a  _ gay _ son. The moment they’d found out about his orientation, their faithfulness to being his parents had dissolved so suddenly he’d been left breathless by the cruelty of it. 

Despite the fact that he hadn’t spoken to his parents in twenty years, it still made him deeply uncomfortable to contemplate that his marriage could have failed. That  _ he _ could have failed to keep it together. To show his parents that two men really could love each other as long as a straight couple could. To show his parents that he was dutiful and faithful and strong. Even though he knew they’d never accept him, and that it was all just conditioning and that his marriage had become a fragile thing… an act.

He rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs and saw Gabriel, hanging his coat on a hook by the side door and toeing off his expensive leather shoes. His back was to Aziraphale and Aziraphale took a moment to breath and prepare himself. He put a warm smile on his face, knowing it would probably take all of his effort to keep it there for more than five seconds at a time. 

Gabriel finally turned and saw him. He smiled back at Aziraphale, a genuine seeming one for once. “Hey babe. How’re you doing?” he walked over and kissed Aziraphale quickly on the lips. Their usual, perfunctory greeting when Gabriel had been away for a while. “What’s Agnes making? Smells delicious!” Why was he in such a good mood when Aziraphale was so conflicted and miserable?

“I’ve no idea,” Aziraphale mumbled, tugging down the hem of his waistcoat and looking toward the doorway to the kitchen proper. “How was your trip? Did the television appearances go well?”

“Yeah, it went well. Same as usual. They all want to know the same things, ask the same questions,” Gabriel scrubbed his hand through his hair, disheveling it somewhat from its state of corporate perfection. “I’m going back in two days to co host some silly awards show.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly, “so soon?”

“Unfortunately yes. The latest book is climbing the charts and people are clamoring for television appearances. I’ll be gone Thursday and back mid day Saturday. Figure I’d meet with Michael and run a few errands while I’m in the city.”

He could have met with Michael and run those errands when he’d  _ just _ been there for the past four days, but Aziraphale didn’t mention this. Instead he nodded. “I’m looking forward to dinner with you then dear,” he said, trying his best to sound as if he meant it. He wasn’t looking forward to having a talk with Gabriel, but  _ something _ had to be done. He had to broach this untouchable subject and find out if there was a way to salvage their relationship. At least that way, he’d know. 


	14. Chapter 14

Crowley trudged up the stairs, tired from sitting on his arse for four and a half hours, picking Gabriel up from the city. The man had sat in the back seat, silent as the grave, earbuds in, staring at his phone, sending emails and texts, doing whatever wanker things he did, other than talk to Crowley.

Not that Crowley minded. He found Gabriel utterly repugnant, and so after a couple of weeks of rides when it was only the two of them, where Gabriel said not a word, and dodged Crowley’s first few tentative out-reachings to start a conversation, Crowley had gladly given in and accepted the silence. What would the overly posh prat have said anyway? He’d likely go on and on about his books, his  _ method _ , his successes. In Crowley’s experience, arseholes like Gabriel never had much of interest to say. But still, spending several hours alone with his thoughts hadn’t been good for Crowley. 

He was worried for starters. Worried about leaving his sibling Beez alone with Aziraphale for this long. The two of them had instantly fallen in love, an event that Crowley honestly could not have seen coming. His sibling was so cynical, so blunt, so rough around the edges. And Aziraphale was so soft, so kind, so genuine. Beez was always at the cutting edge of fashion. They were the first to adopt the latest trend, be it skinny jeans or a septum piercing, always had their hair done in some shaggy, boy band pixie cut that probably cost far too much. Aziraphale by contrast, dressed relentlessly in beige and cream and tartan, and looked like he was trying out for an extra on a 1950s sitcom. Father Knows Best. I Dream Of Genie. 

The fact that those two hit it off so spectacularly, and within minutes of their second meeting, was a strange and miraculous event. He was happy for them for their newfound friendship. Still, it made Crowley nervous to have his untrustworthy sibling alone with his massive crush, canoodling for half the day. He opened the door to his flat and found Beez, passed out on the sofa in Crowley’s living room, arms and legs everywhere, mouth hanging open. The living room reeked of second hand wine fumes. 

_Oh shit_ , Crowley thought. _The two of them_ _got drunk_. 

He hung his jacket up, kicked off his boots and went to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea. The thump of the fridge door shutting woke Beez, who snorted and jerked awake with a grunt. “Hey,” they rasped, struggling to pull themselves upward to a normal, human sitting position on the sofa.

“Hey indeed,” Crowley said back, putting the kettle on and pouring some milk into his mug in preparation for the teabag. “How was your afternoon?” He asked, trying his damndest to avoid sounding accusatory or horribly suspicious.

“Was fine,” mumbled Beez, rubbing their forehead and squinting in the light from the kitchen. Crowley flicked on more lights as dusk was descending outside, and Beez grimaced at the brightness. 

“Drink a bit did we?” Crowley asked, keeping his tone light.

“Yeh, a bit,” Beez confirmed, resting their head briefly in their hands. 

“With Aziraphale?” Crowley pressed a little further, his shoulders climbing towards his ears as his need to know what they talked about sharpened in intensity, an anxious pull inside his chest.

“Yes, you obvious git.  _ With Aziraphale _ ,” they snapped, shooting him a glare from under a glossy, disheveled fringe, eyes narrowed with hangover pain. 

“What did you two talk about?” Crowley, giving up on being gentle or subtle, stood with hands on his hips, staring at Beez through his shades. He had a growing feeling of unease rising up in his belly at how indistinct Beez was being at the moment. 

“You and how much you love Aziraphale. He thought it was pathetic and said he wanted to you to leave the property at once.” Beez, who was clearly irritated by the interrogation and what was probably a splitting headache, grinned unkindly in Crowley’s direction. 

“You’re a fucking shit sometimes, you know that?” Crowley, clenching and unclenching his fists, was he was sure he’d broken out into a light sweat with the anxiety to know what had transpired between his sibling and his employer’s husband. 

“Oh shove off.” they grouched back at him. “I didn’t tell him how you felt. But… I just might have let it slip... that you’re bisexual.”

“You  _ what _ ??”

“Relax,” said Beez, as if they hadn’t just utterly ruined Crowley’s life. “I think it’ll be fine. You should talk to him.”

Crowley spluttered. He couldn’t help it. He moved his mouth and several syllables came out, but none of them could be used to string a coherent word together, let alone a sentence. “You… you told him I was bi? That wasn’t any of your business!”

“Yeah, you’ve got a point,” Beez replied, finally pulling themself up off the sofa and meandering their way toward the kitchen as the teakettle began to ramp up into a full scream. “But don’t worry. Like I said, I think it’s going to be fine. He’d never tell Gabriel.” 

Crowley, unable to throttle his sibling, because he had to see to making the tea, swiftly turned the heat off, and poured hot water into his own mug. “You’re unbelievable,” he growled bitterly.

“I’d like some tea too please if you wouldn’t mind,” Beez replied with a roll of their eyes, ignoring his clearly combative tone. “Anyway, Like I said, it’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?! How can you say that Beez? Him assuming I was straight was the only thing keeping us from ripping each other’s clothes off. I relied on that assumption. I  _ needed _ it to build a barrier.”

“Why? Seems pretty pointless to build a barrier when you want to shag the daylights out of him. Why not just tell him how you feel?” 

“ _ Because his husband pays the bills _ and if his husband finds out I shagged Aziraphale, I’ll be out of here so fast my head will spin! Jesus Beez! I need this job!”   
  
“But do you though?” They cut him off mid rant. “Do you really?”   
  


“Yes! It’s a gateway to even better jobs. It’s a fantastic entry on my resume. It’s… it’s…”

“It’s just money Crowley, that’s all.” They plunked a tea bag into their own mug and poured hot water over it from the kettle while Crowley had a minor melt down, running his fingers through his hair and pacing back and forth on the small square of linoleum that made up the kitchen floor. Had Beez lost their mind? He swiftly looked at the facts and took a few deep breaths, struggling to calm down. Things weren’t _ that _ dire. Aziraphale knew he was bisexual, but.... He didn’t know that Crowley wanted him. 

Wait… did he?   
  


“You  _ didn’t _ tell him how I felt right?…” he paused, rewinding the conversation in his mind, trying to remember what Beez had said, while flinching, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“No, I didn’t. Should've though,” they said while stirring two heaping teaspoons of sugar into their tea.

“You… you  _ should have _ ?” Crowley’s spluttering made a reappearance. “Why...why would you-”

“Look,” Beez interrupted him yet again. “You’re head over heels for him. You should just talk to him about it. Just ask him to come over, then explain that you’re utterly gone on him and shag him properly. This  _ is  _ a good job, I’ll give you that. But it’s not worth saying no to the love of your life.”

_ The love of your life _ . Oh sweet Jesus, Beez was right weren’t they? Ever since the night he’d scared off those horrible people from mocking Aziraphale, and probably subconsciously long before that, the soft spoken white-blond man had been all he could think about. Aziraphale’s wide, sparkling eyes. Aziraphale’s beaming smile. Aziraphale’s wicked sense of humor and his kindness and how he could make any conversation instantly fascinating. 

“Oh shit,” he said, dazed, struck, unable to say anything else. 

“Yeah ‘oh shit’ is right.” Beez wasn’t gloating, or mocking him. They were just telling it like it was. Their stint in rehab had apparently bestowed upon them an irritating amount of calm insightfulness, and they were right. Aziraphale was the love of Crowley’s life. He hadn’t felt this way since Will, and even then, his relationship with the older man, while beautiful and deeply felt, had been fraught with unfulfilled needs and fears of Will's death. It had been a profoundly moving relationship, one built on trust and affection and Crowley would remember Will for the rest of his life. But it had still been sexually stilted, and physically a bit distant. Crowley had always been left craving more from Will, from Will’s body, but he’d never been allowed to get as close as he needed to be. 

Aziraphale on the other hand, while he had no such barriers of physicality were Crowley actually able to be close to him, (dear lord,  _ that  _ was a thought for another time). Yet he stood behind a different set of walls all together. The barriers of legal marriage, of financial security and the fear of the unknown stood firmly between he and Aziraphale. And one, rather large unknown was how Aziraphale felt about  _ Crowley _ . Crowley didn’t trust his love addled instincts enough to assume that the other man felt the same way he did. There was something there for sure, but was it the same as the overpowering, all consuming pull that Crowley felt? Aziraphale could simply be bored in his unhappy marriage and be transferring some pent up lust in Crowley’s direction, while Crowley meanwhile was fantasizing about what a cozy Sunday would be like when he and Aziraphale bought a small cottage together somewhere in the South Downs. 

Yet… Beez had a point. He was valuing a  _ job _ over a man that he could easily see spending the rest of his life with. 

Despite all of this, he felt like his hands were tied. It wasn’t up to him to wreck Aziraphale’s life, or to make things between them tense and uncomfortable with some sort of come on or grand gesture. Any step Crowley took toward Aziraphale outside of platonic friendship would send the delicate structure of their shared lives to crumbling around their ears. Hell, even their friendship felt closeted and dangerous. And Aziraphale could hardly be expected to confess love or even just simple desire for an  _ employee _ . He was far too polite, too appropriate, too tied up with tradition and propriety to do something that bold.

Crowley took a deep, shaky breath as he saw a purgatory of unspoken desire and self imposed celibacy stretching out before him. If he didn’t tell Aziraphale how he felt, what could he expect going forward? Continuing to work for the man and his twat of a husband for the next year? Two? Five? Was it too soon to resign? The thought of Aziraphale’s face, painted over with sadness and disappointment at losing what was probably one of only a few friends he’d made in this country when Crowley left, caused Crowley’s insides to twist uncomfortably with a pang of regret. The thought of leaving and never seeing Aziraphale again made a sharp pain bloom behind his sternum, as if he’d been punched in the chest. 

Unacceptable. Never seeing Aziraphale again was filed firmly under the  _ unacceptable _ section of Crowley’s brain.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” he asked, rhetorically, but of course, Beez didn’t believe in rhetorical questions. They always had to get a word in. 

“You can do whatever you like.  _ I  _ propose telling him how you feel, falling into bed with him and running off together. But other options include hiding from him, being painfully awkward around him, or drowning yourself in a local lake. Wouldn’t recommend that last option though. It’s quite chilly out.”

“I hate you,” Crowley replied bitterly

“You’ve grown sentimental in your old age,” Beez replied with a cheeky grin, raising their tea cup to their lips to blow on the hot liquid. 

“I think for the time being, I’ll try the awkward option,” Crowley had to admit that while telling Aziraphale how he felt might be satisfying (if terrifying), it was still a rash move. He’d have to see Aziraphale again, assess if and how the news that Crowley was bisexual had affected the other man. Test the waters as it were. “I’m going to take a shower and go get some dinner in town. Want to come with me?” he asked, giving up on trying to scold his sibling for betraying his confidence. It wouldn’t work as a future deterrent anyway. 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” they said. “And Crowley?”

He turned back to them in the doorway to the kitchen area, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Thanks again,” Beez said, sounding actually genuine, dropping their ever present sarcasm for a moment. “I mean it. Thanks for letting me stay, for helping me put Da to rest. Thanks for being here. I needed to connect, and you’ve been lovely about it all.”

“Yeah well, that’s what family’s for,” he said, meaning to brush off their gratitude with a gruff acknowledgment and head to the bathroom, but they stopped him again.

“No,” they said, eyes dropping to their tea cup. “That’s  _ not _ what I’ve experienced. Family is apparently for calling you worthless and hitting you. Family isn't something I’ve felt very positive about before now. But you’ve always been really good to me. So thank you.”

“Ok Beez,” Crowley managed to get out around the lump that had swiftly risen in his throat. “Let's head out in twenty? Sushi?” He couldn’t get into how their words had pulled so effectively at his heart strings right now. He hoped that they understood that he was moved by what they’d said and left it at that.

“Ok,” they smiled and he turned away to go get washed up. 


	15. Chapter 15

Aziraphale put down his fork, chewing his last bite of porkshop, which in reality, was tender and juicy, but to his tongue tasted as if it were made of clay. He was too nervous and he knew it. Having had his fill of drinking for the day, he’d stuck with water at dinner, but was swiftly growing to regret not taking on some liquid courage for the subject he was about to broach.

Gabriel had chatted amiably during dinner, going on about the television appearance on some talk show dedicated to health and wellness and his interview for Mindfulness Monthly magazine. He did manage to ask Aziraphale how his weekend went, but was easily mollified with Aziraphale’s simple response of “it was lovely thank you.” No follow up questions. No curiosity of what Aziraphale had gotten up to. 

Aziraphale informed Gabriel that Crowley’s sibling was staying with him for a week and Gabriel had been predictably confused and grumpy about their lack of easily identifiable pronouns. Aziraphale made a mental note to ensure that Beez and Gabriel were never in the same room together. He seemed alright with Beez’s presence overall though, saying “the man hasn’t had a guest since we hired him, so I suppose that’s fine.” Aziraphale could have reminded him that it was literally written into the lease that Crowley could have overnight guests, but kept his mouth prudently shut. 

The meal was coming to a close now though, and Aziraphale knew that if he didn’t speak up soon, Gabriel would disappear into his study to hop on his computer, or head to the living room to put on the news. 

“Sweetheart,” he began apprehensively and watched as Gabriel’s face changed instantly upon hearing the cautious, solicitous tone in Aziraphale’s voice. He watched the man’s jaw clench slightly, his eyebrows draw down into what Aziraphale referred privately to himself as Gabriel’s ‘what is it _now’_ face. Barrelling onward so as not to lose his courage, Aziraphale continued. “I think we need to have a talk,” he said, heartbeat starting to pound at his temples, “about our marriage.” 

“What about it?” Gabriel asked, and he was so clearly trying _not_ to sound cold and irritable that Aziraphale could see the visible strain of it move across his features. 

“Things have gotten… off between us.” Aziraphale forged ahead bravely, ignoring the flinty look in Gabriel’s eyes. “I haven’t felt like you’ve really been here, with me, in our marriage in a long time. At least since we moved here together.”

“And what is it you feel that’s missing?” Gabriel didn’t sound warm or caring exactly, but he did have a genuine hint of curiosity in his tone when he asked the question, so Aziraphale responded.

“I don’t know, intimacy? Sex? Affection? Time spent alone together, doing things we both enjoy? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a bit unnecessary and unwanted lately.”

Gabriel sighed, with what felt like half frustration and half weariness. He ran his hands through his hair and then took his napkin out of his lap and tossed it on the table. “Yeah,” he said, his voice gentling a little. “I know. I haven’t been the most attentive husband. Things really took off a couple of years ago, and I’ve just been hanging on for the ride.”

“Thank you dear, for acknowledging that.” Aziraphale said softly.

“What can I do to help fix it?” Gabriel asked. “Do you want to spend more time together? I’m still a busy man babe. I’ll have these trips to the city and meetings with Michael and emails and all that for the foreseeable future.”

“I don’t know. Could we maybe go on holiday somewhere?” Aziraphale knew it was a lot to ask, but maybe if they went away somewhere nice together, somewhere relaxing and conducive to romance, the old Gabriel, the exciting, sexy, thrilling Gabriel he’d known twenty years ago would make a reappearance. 

“Holiday? Where?” Gabriel clearly didn’t seem all that happy with this idea and Aziraphale was surprised to find out that he didn’t actually want to go away with Gabriel badly enough to push it. 

“Or perhaps not a holiday. Maybe just spend the day in bed? Watching telly and doing naughty things? Just some more quality time? I’m feeling frightfully useless in this big house all week.”

“Maybe you should get a job?” Gabriel, sidestepped his request and predictably made it about something _Aziraphale_ could be doing. 

“I applied actually, at the local library, for a managerial position. They haven’t gotten back to me yet though, so perhaps I’m a touch overqualified? Anyway,” Azirpahale continued, starting to feel a bit hopeless, “I could find other things to do with my time. But that’s not the point. The point is, I feel like I should do more things with _you_.”

Gabriel appeared to think this over for a few seconds, then he put on a warm smile, one that could possibly be genuine, though sometimes it was hard to tell. “Sure babe. Let's spend some extra time together tomorrow. We can have breakfast in our rooms and watch some tv. Does that sound good?” he reached over and placed a warm hand on Aziraphale’s forearm, squeezing it affectionately. 

Aziraphale felt a spark of hope flame to life inside his chest and smiled back at Gabriel. “That would be lovely,” he replied, placing his hand over Gabriel’s and squeezing back. 

“Great! That’ll be nice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some phone calls to make before bed. See you up there in a bit?” he released Aziraphale’s arm and stood, back to being all business once more. 

Aziraphale smiled a small smile and nodded, letting his husband go off once again to become immersed in his career.

After Gabriel left the dining room, Aziraphale got up and went to the library. He could work on some poetry for a while before bed. He had a small sense of satisfaction for broaching the difficult subject of their failing marriage, but even though Gabriel had seemed relatively amenable to the topic, Aziraphale still felt empty and dissatisfied inside. What had been accomplished? A promise to spend more time together? But would Gabriel have wanted to spend more time with Aziraphale of his own accord? Without his husband nagging at him for attention? Unlikely. 

Aziraphale switched on his reading lamp on his desk in the library and sat down with a fresh sheet of white paper and his favorite writing pen. He preferred to handwrite the poetry. It slowed him down and helped him think, and really, it felt appropriate to write love poetry by hand. It was a very long tradition, engaged in by many utterly besotted fools for hundreds of years, and Aziraphale respected it.

_Love poetry_. His brain had spit out the words and he’d been only mildly surprised by that thought. His poetry was all about Crowley these days, and he was belatedly realizing that he’d told himself it was a just a simple fantasy. Something to keep him titillated in Gabriel’s semi-constant absence. A way to stretch his writing muscles by waxing poetic about their sexy, red haired gardener. Now, as his pen began to move across the page and words of adoration for Crowley spilled out onto the white expanse, he realized it was more than a fun fantasy. Much more. The enormity of what it was he was saying between the lines of these hopeless love poems was something he didn’t have the courage to look at this evening, and so he simply wrote instead.

_My precious garnet_

_My ruby supreme_

_My milk skinned scarlet_

_My golden eyed dream_

_My green fingered soldier_

_My soft smiling darling_

_My heart’s controller_

_My sleek, gleaming starling_

_My eyes are enraptured_

_My mouth longs to taste_

_My ardor is captured_

_My hands on your waist_

_My lips on your fingers_

_My hands in your hair_

_My skin on yours lingers_

_As long as I dare_

He stopped the movement of his pen with the realization that thoughts of Crowley’s soft red tresses and large liquid gold eyes and lithe body had risen up in his mind in a flurry of tempting images as he’d written. Now he was a bit hot and breathless and to his totally pointless embarrassment (he was alone in the library), he was half hard inside his trousers. 

_Dear god in heaven, I want this man_ , he thought guiltily, putting his pen down and taking a deep breath. He was supposed to be reconnecting with his husband, and instead, he felt as if he were seconds away from running to the flat above the garage and throwing himself into the Crowley’s arms. The knowledge that Beez was staying with Crowley was probably the only thing reliably holding him back at this point. Still, he could stop in, couldn’t he? Say hello and ask if there was anything Beez needed from the house. Some shampoo or conditioner? Some extra coffee? 

He was up and out of the house, almost before he knew what he was doing. By the time he’d shaken himself out of the trance he’d fallen into while writing about making love to Crowley, he had already rung the doorbell, and it was too late to back out now. Luckily, his erection had swiftly faded under an onslaught of self conscious nervousness, or else he’d have looked a state. Showing up at Crowley’s door, flushed, breathless with a stiff cock was not exactly the best way to play it cool. 

He heard the thumping of footsteps coming down the stairs and struggled to maintain his composure, wiping sweaty palms down the sides of his trouser legs and shifting uneasily from foot to foot. 

The door swung open and Crowley, in a pair of soft, black tracksuit bottoms and a faded t-shirt, eyes uncovered, hair mussed stood in the doorway. For a brief second, they stared at one another, speechless. 

“Hey angel,” Crowley said softly. He sounded pleased, and a small smile had begun to play about in the corners of his mouth.

“Hello Crowley!” Aziraphale chirped nervously. “I thought I’d stop by to see how you and Beez are doing. See if they need anything. More towels? Some shampoo?” It was a pathetic excuse at best, but Crowley seemed to buy it.

“That’s… that’s really thoughtful of you,” the man said warmly, then he stood back and let the door swing fully open. “Want to come up and have a nightcap? I know Beez would love to see you, they won’t shut up about how brilliant you are.”

Aziraphale’s face heated up with pleasure and he grinned, a warm feeling of affection and belonging unspooling inside his chest. “Oh, that would be lovely! Though, to be honest, a cup of tea will do nicely. I’ve had quite enough to drink today.”

“So I’ve heard,” Crowley replied with a chuckle and a minor roll of his eyes. He stood back and allowed Aziraphale to enter the small foyer at the bottom of the stairs. They were standing very close together for a few seconds and the smell of Crowley’s apple shampoo and spicy deodorant was making Aziraphale’s head spin just a little. Crowley waved his hand at the stairs and executed a polite half-bow. “After you.” he said graciously.

Aziraphale inched past him ( _dear lord he smelled good!_ ) and made his way up the stairs as Crowley followed him up. 

“We have a visitor!” Crowley exclaimed when they reached the top and opened the door to Crowley’s small but well kept flat. Beez looked up from where they were sitting on the living room sofa, a graphic novel open on their lap and a huge smile bloomed across their face. 

“Cream puff!” they exclaimed, grinning broadly as they got up, putting the magazine on a side table and coming over to give Aziraphale a big hug. 

“Hello again dear,” Aziraphale hugged back, delighted to receive such a warm welcome from Beez. They’d had a fantastic time this afternoon together, but it was always hard to tell if there was real affection underlying a new friendship if you discovered said friendship while completely sozzled. 

“You’ve never been up here before have you?” Crowley asked pointlessly, because _of course_ Aziraphale had never been inside Crowley’s flat.

“Can’t say that I have,” he replied with a smile. “It’s rather cozy though isn’t it? Do you like it? I’m sorry I didn’t ask you about that far sooner. It’s just, you never complained and so…” he let the end of his nervously rambling sentence hang in the air.

“Oh yeah, it’s lovely. Quite a nice little flat. Far, far bigger than what I had in the city.”

Beez was looking back and forth between the two of them during this exchange, grinning like a jack-o-lantern and Aziraphale suddenly remembered that he’d told Beez how massively in love with Crowley he was just a few hours ago. His face and neck began to burn with embarrassment, and he felt a light sweat break out at his hairline and his upper lip. Had they told Crowley? Aziraphale was a fool to forget his drunken confession until just this moment. 

Either way, it was too late to panic now. Now that he was inside Crowley’s flat, with both siblings looking at him expectantly. “I just stopped by to see if Beez needed anything, and your brother,” he turned to Beez, “was nice enough to invite me up for a nightcap. Though I told him that tea would be just fine.” He grinned self consciously. “And is there anything else I can get you Beez? To help you settle in?”

“Nah, I’m just fine thanks. Glad to see you again though… sober that is.” They grinned again and Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile back, thinking about their intimate afternoon together. 

“I’m happy to see you’re not worse for wear,” he remarked, taking in Beez’s gently flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. They didn't look hungover.

“Oh yeah. Crowley made sure to pump me full of tea and get me a proper dinner. I’m right as rain,” they said, casting a fond look in Crowley’s direction. He grinned and sauntered toward the kitching, hips swinging in that hypnotic way that had Aziraphale’s eyes following him despite his efforts not to stare.

“What kind of tea do you want, angel?” Crowley asked from the small kitchen area of the flat.

“Anything herbal will do,” Aziraphale responded, raising his voice just a little to be heard around the small divider that separated the kitchen from the rest of the flat’s living area.

“ _Angel?_ ” whispered Beez, eyes wide, staring at Aziraphale with their mouth hanging open. 

“ _Shhh!_ ” Aziraphale hushed them before Crowley could notice that little exchange. 

“What are you two whispering about in here?” Crowley asked suspiciously as he returned from putting a kettle on to boil. “Thick as thieves you are, right out of the gate.” 

“Yes, we do seem to get along quite well,” Aziraphale smiled warmly at Beez who winked back conspiratorially. 

“I don’t like it,” Crowley grumbled without rancor as he settled on the sofa next to where Beez was standing. “Have a seat angel,” he gestured at the cushiony armchair beside the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I want the armchair!” Beez blurted out, stepping swiftly over to it and sitting down before Crowley or Aziraphale could respond. This of course meant that the only remaining seat was the one next to Crowley on the sofa. 

Aziraphale cautiously sat down, as far from Crowley as he could get. It wasn’t a particularly large sofa, (which meant he was sitting about two feet from Crowley), and he leaned against his arm rest, trying not to crowd the man. This was the closest they’d ever been physically, outside of sitting across from each other at lunch a few days ago. He immediately felt the side of his body nearest to Crowley begin to tingle gently, as if his skin had a mind of its own and knew that he was close to pressing up against something he’d dreamed of touching for a solid year.

Crowley too shifted a bit in his seat, leaning against his own arm rest, in a move that before today, Aziraphale would have assumed was the discomfort of a homophobic heterosexual man being put suddenly in proximity of another male person, but now… now he couldn’t be sure. 

“How has your day been?” Crowley asked dutifully, making small talk, but his voice was kind and warm. 

_He really wants to know,_ Aziraphale realized. “Oh, it’s been a mixed bag. After Beez left this afternoon, I had dinner with Gabriel and settled in to write some poetry, then I thought how rude I’d been not to stop by and see if Beez might need anything else. All I’d left last night was some sheets and pillows and a toothbrush, so I came over here to check if you were all sorted. Not much to tell really,” he shrugged, cognizant of the fact that he had iced over the details of his dinner with his husband, hadn’t told them what was discussed. 

“How’s the writing coming?” Crowley asked, again sounding genuinely curious.

“Oh, it’s going well, flowing nicely,” Aziraphale responded, trying not to think of the subject matter of 98% of his recent poems, now that it was sitting next to him on a rather small sofa. 

“I know I told you this already, but if you’d ever want a second opinion, I’d be happy to read some of your work,” Crowley said, then amended swiftly, “not that you haven’t shown them to anyone else… I didn’t mean to imply that-”

He was cut off by a rather loud and dramatic yawn from Beez, who stretched their arms over their head like a large cat. “Look, this back and forth is fascinating, but I’ve suddenly become very sleepy. Crowley, can I take a quick nap in your room?”

“Oh my dear, I shan’t keep you from your bed!” Aziraphale struggled to rise, but Beez’s sharp hand motion kept him in place. 

“Don’t you _dare,_ ” they said with a warning tone. “You stay right where you are. I’m not falling asleep for the night. It’s barely half past nine. Just catching forty winks. No bother at all.” And with that, they rose from the armchair and walked from the room through the door that presumably led to Crowley’s bedroom. 

Crowley watched them go, eyes wide with surprise, as well as a hint of suspicion. “Well alright then,” he said softly, turning his eyes back to Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale swallowed audibly. “You were saying?” Crowley asked. 

“I should head back home,” Aziraphale said desperately. “It’s getting late,”

Just then, the kettle in the kitchen began ramping itself up from low whistle to high pitched wail. Crowley jumped up to go turn off the heat. “You can’t leave now,” he said, sounding like he truly wanted Aziraphale to stay longer. “You haven’t had your tea yet.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more minor mentions of drug addition, sex work and childhood abuse/strict religious upbringing

“Well, alright, yes. I suppose I haven’t. Thank you Crowley, I don’t mean to be rude. I simply don’t want to impose.”

Crowley inwardly drew a sigh of relief that Aziraphale wasn’t about to run out the door. “No imposition at all,” he hurried to reassure his guest as he made his way to the kitchen and set about making them both a cup of tea. “I hope mint is alright,” he called back into the living room. “It’s the only herbal tea I have.”

“Mint would be delightful, thank you,” came Aziraphale’s reply. 

Crowley forced himself to focus on grabbing the box of herbal mint tea from the top shelf of his kitchen cabinet, rather than on the fact that the man he was an absolute mess over was sitting in the other room. This, Aziraphale being in his flat, sitting on his sofa, _next to him,_ was new. _Very_ new. Different in a thrilling and terrifying way. They’d never before been alone in a private residence, let alone sitting next to one another.

He reminded himself that Beez was in the next room, and (Jesus Christ) Aziraphale’s _husband_ was less than a hundred yards away in the house. They weren’t technically _alone._ But also, he didn’t care about Gabriel one bit, and his sibling was actively trying to set him and Aziraphale up with each other, so it was doubtful that they’d emerge from Crowley’s bedroom any time soon to interrupt.

Crowley tried to quiet his nerves as he put a mint tea bag into each cup and poured boiling water over them. His head was spinning, his heart was pounding in his ears, and his mouth had gone completely dry the minute Aziraphale appeared at the door to the entrance to his flat. 

He carefully brought the steaming cups of tea into the other room, placing them on the coffee table in front of the sofa, one in front of Aziraphale and one in front of himself, then sat down again. This time, just a little bit closer to his guest. Aziraphale had shifted a little bit too while Crowley had been in the kitchen. They were probably three inches closer to one another and Crowley could feel _every inch_ of that new proximity. 

“I’m glad you’ve made friends with my sibling,” he said, striving to find a safe topic of discussion, but then remembered belatedly that part of Aziraphale’s last conversation with Beez involved him finding out that Crowley was interested in men, and panicked inwardly. 

“Oh yes! They’re just lovely.”

“To _you_ maybe,” snorted Crowley. Then when he saw the confused look on Aziraphale’s face, he amended what he’d said. “I’m sorry, it’s just we’ve had a really fraught relationship for a long time.” He dropped his voice a bit so that Beez couldn’t overhear them talking. “Things were rough when we grew up. I don’t think I ever told you, but our Da used to yell at us a lot, and he hit me when he got angry.”

“Oh my dear, no,” Aziraphale’s soft look of sadness and worry was surprising to him. He supposed he forgot how people reacted to news like that, it being ancient history to him. What was even more surprising, in a thrilling way was how the man reached over and placed a warm, soft hand on the bare skin of Crowley’s forearm and squeezed gently. It was the first time they’d ever touched, outside of a handshake once, and the accidental brushes that had happened while working in the greenhouse together. 

Crowley kept his face carefully neutral, and reminded himself stringently that Aziraphale’s touch was meant to be kind and reassuring, instead of making him go weak with a sudden surge of tingling desire that curled up tightly in his belly as the man’s hand contacted his arm. 

_Don’t be a pervert_ he scolded himself. _He’s simply being nice. Being supportive._

Aziraphale swiftly removed his hand, but the warmth of it, the memory of the feel of it lingered, would probably continue lingering into the next day. “That’s terrible Crowley. I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice very soft and very gentle. 

“It was a long time ago,” Crowley replied with a shrug, still struggling a bit to regain his inner equilibrium. “I got over it, I really did. He only ever hit _me,_ but he still gave Beez plenty to be traumatized by. We both found different coping mechanisms, and theirs… well, it made them hard to be close to.”

“Drugs?” guessed Azirapale, and Crowley nodded.

“It really wasn’t my place to tell you that, but believe me, they’d tell you if they were here now. They don’t really seem to possess the ability to be ashamed of their behavior. Which… has good side effects and bad side effects as you can imagine. Regardless, they got clean two years ago and I couldn’t be prouder. Yeah, they still drink now and again, but that’s not their drug of choice, so they don’t feel drawn to it particularly.”

Aziraphale nodded, seeming unphased by the news that Beez was a former drug addict. Crowley suddenly felt the urge to tell him more. To tell him some of the things that scared him to think of Aziraphale knowing. He had some compelling evidence that the other man wouldn’t judge him as harshly as he’d assumed a few weeks ago. 

But this couldn’t turn into a therapy session. Now, with Aziraphale sitting in his flat for the first time, he couldn’t unload his shadowy past all at once. He longed to tell Aziraphale about the hustling, the fighting, the theft and petty crimes that had characterized his teens and early twenties. He wanted to expose himself emotionally to the man so he could tell whether or not he’d be fully accepted. Aziraphale had been so kind and understanding about he and Beez’s upbringing and tumultuous family life. Would he still like Crowley if he found out that he’d regularly sucked men off for money? That he’d let men fuck him in the back seats of cars or in graveyards or side allies for a handful of cash? 

He wondered idly what Aziraphale’s childhood experiences were like, and decided that would be a somewhat safer subject to broach. Hadn’t he been raised by wealthy, intellectual snobs? Church people? “You said you were raised pretty strictly religious,” he prompted.

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. “Yes,” he replied, also leaning down to get his tea and bring it to his lips to blow gently on the hot surface of the liquid inside the cup. “I certainly _was_. My parents never struck me, nor did they yell. Very rarely anyway. What they did mostly was tell me that the way I felt inside was wrong, and that any thought I had that was sexual in nature was a paving stone on the path that led to eternal damnation in the pits of hell.”

“Oh god Aziraphale, that’s rough,” Crowley realized that he’d internally downplayed Aziraphale’s childhood trauma as just this standard, generic conglomerate of ‘raised by religious parents’, and suddenly felt his assumptions rearrange themselves. Religious parents, as a whole could raise children in all different ways, from loving and supportive and accepting, all the way up to and including violence and sexual abuse. 

“It was what it was,” Aziraphale shrugged gently and sipped at his tea again. “I luckily made some dear friends that helped me shrug off a lot of those attitudes. My parents completely disowned me when they discovered I was gay. When I told them I planned on marrying Gabriel, they told me I was not their son anymore and never spoke to me again.”

“Oh Aziraphale, I’m sorry.” Crowley felt powerless to say much else. He wanted to pull Aziraphale into a warm embrace and rock him gently while stroking his hair. And since _that_ option wasn’t open to him, he was reduced to making his voice as gentle as he could get it and apologizing for the shitty, narrow minded opinions of two people he’d never even met. 

“It’s all right my dear,” Aziraphale replied with a soft smile. “Like you said about your past, it was a long time ago. I’ve grown accustomed to their absence.” He looked thoughtfully down into his teacup for a moment and the silence stretched comfortably between them. 

“Have you and Beez decided where to scatter your father’s ashes?” he asked, putting his cup down again and turning towards Crowley a little on the sofa.

“Not yet,” replied Crowley. “What with settling in and Beez and I reconnecting, we hadn’t given it much thought. They think Disney world would work, but that’s a bit far.” He chuckled softly at the very idea of scattering their father’s ashes somewhere in Epcot Center. “They, Beez, want to scatter him somewhere he’d hate, and at first I agreed with them. The man was a shit to us for the entirety of our childhoods… a younger me would have showered Mickey Mouse with Da’s remains and then had a laugh about it. I've been giving it some thought since yesterday though, letting his death process a little, and I'm finding that revenge doesn’t feel quite as good anymore. Who knows what my Da’s childhood was like? I’m almost certain his own father beat him. I hear his mother was a real harpy too. A drunk who enjoyed screaming as a hobby.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “Our father was a product of his own upbringing. To do something blatantly disrespectful, like scatter his ashes somewhere I know he’d hate… it feels childish. Pointless. Maybe it’s time to start trying to forgive him…or perhaps I can't yet. Maybe we should just hurl him into the Atlantic and let the seagulls have him? I don’t know...I go back and forth.” He stuttered to a stop, then realized he’d gone and made this a therapy session anyway, despite his best intentions.

“Didn’t mean to get all deep on you,” he apologized, shrugging.

“Oh no my dear, you were simply sharing something important about how you think and feel. You never need to apologize for that.”

Crowley looked up, and their eyes met and held for a heart pounding moment, then kept holding as the seconds ticked by, longer and longer. _I could kiss him now_ , Crowley realized with a start. _I could just lean in and kiss him. He’d let me. He wants me to, I can tell._

As if Aziraphale could hear what Crowley was thinking, the other man dropped his large luminous eyes to Crowley’s mouth, while his own mouth, soft and inviting fell open slightly. 

_If I don’t kiss him now, I might die,_ Crowley thought, through a heady mix of fear and exhilaration as he felt himself leaning oh so gently forward toward Aziraphale, his own eyes trained on the other man’s tempting lips, drawn in as if by a magnetic force. 

The buzz of Aziraphale’s mobile phone made both of them jump simultaneously. Aziraphale blinked as if walking up from a dream. Crowley had a front row seat from which to watch his one chance to kiss the man slip away, as Aziraphale distractedly fumbled his phone out from his jacket pocket and peered at it. “Oh my,” he said, sounding a touch breathless and worried. “It’s Gabriel. He’s probably headed for bed and wondering where I am.”

“Ah,” replied Crowley, feeling bitter disappointment curl inside his chest, not trusting himself to say much more at the moment.

“It appears it’s time for me to bid you goodnight,” Aziraphale said with an apologetic smile as he rose from the sofa and began his small ritual of tugging at his waistcoat and rearranging his bow tie with nervous fingers. Was it Crowley’s imagination, or did he seem more flustered than usual?

“Alright then,” Crowley managed, also standing in preparation to walk Aziraphale out, sticking his hands in the pockets of his trackies to keep from lunging at the man and pulling him into his arms. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said, carefully keeping his voice neutral, trying not to display the disappointment and longing welling up inside his chest as Aziraphale turned toward the door. 

“Oh my dear, thank you for having me! It was delightful. And please pass along a good night to Beez when they wake up from their nap,” he added, walking over to the door, but clearly waiting for Crowley to accompany him. “Shall I show myself out…” he paused, hand on the door, invitation hanging between them in the air. 

“Nah, I’ll walk you down angel.” Crowley slipped past Aziraphale and headed down the stairs. They stood for a moment in the small foyer with the door open, looking at each other bashfully. Crowley could smell Aziraphale’s cologne and standing this close, could feel the warmth radiating from the other man. He’d probably be heaven to cuddle with in bed. Like a human radiator on a cold night.

Deciding to be daring, Crowley opened his arms in a clear invitation for a hug. It felt right, after what they’d shared, and if he didn’t touch the other man soon, he was pretty sure he’d self immolate and burn down the entire property, house, garage, greenhouse and all. 

Aziraphale smiled warmly and stepped into his arms.

Crowley felt a breath escape him in a relieved huff as he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and pulled him close. Feeling Aziraphale’s body, soft and warm and yielding in his embrace was quite possibly the most delicious thing he’d ever experienced. 

Aziraphale squeezed him back tightly for a moment, then released him and stepped back. “Thank you,” he said, softly. “For everything.”

“Hey, you too angel,” Crowley choked out inarticulately, unsure of what Aziraphale was thanking him for… perhaps for being a listening ear, or for his cup of tea? _He_ however, was thanking Aziraphale for simply being himself and letting Crowley be near him. 

Aziraphale gave him one more small, shy smile, then turned and left. Crowley stood in the doorway and watched him walk away, willing him to look back. 

_Look back, look back, look back_ , the words ran through his lovesick mind like a mantra as his eyes roamed over Aziraphale’s broad shoulders and the soft, wild hair on the nape of his neck, illuminated in the lanterns lining the drive.

Just before Aziraphale reached the side door of the house he _did_ turn and look, and Crowley’s breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t see the expression on Azirpahale’s face at that distance, but he could tell that the man stood there for a beat, looking back at Crowley standing in the open doorway of the entrance to his flat. It was enough. It was thrilling. For an insane moment, Crowley thought Aziraphale might turn all the way around. That he might come back and fall into Crowley’s arms. But no. He simply turned back to the house, opened the door and disappeared through it. 

Aziraphale’s interest was clear, in his body language, the way his eyes so longingly dropped to Crowley’s mouth when they sat on the sofa. _Aziraphale wanted him_. He _had to_. The signs were all there. His flushed cheeks, his nervousness, the way his eyes raked over Crowley’s face, as if wanting to memorize Crowley’s features. Crowley couldn’t be sure if Aziraphale wanted more than a fun night of hot sex, but even if that was all the other man was after, Crowley would gladly give it to him. 

Even though Crowley being put aside after a night of shared passion in favor of Aziraphale working on his marriage to Gabriel would hurt like hell, it would be worth it to touch that silky skin, to bury his face in that soft, soft hair. It would be worth a thousand rejections for one night spent pulling all sorts of lovely noises from that sweet mouth. 

He closed the door and took the stairs up to the flat two at a time. Once he got to the top, he went straightway to his bedroom and kicked a complaining Beez out of his bed. “Get lost. I need to be alone,” he snapped as they glared at him muzzily, having apparently genuinely taken a nap. 

“Yeah, I bet you do,” they groused.

“Shut it you utter prat and get out before I toss you out,” he growled back, standing with his finger pointing to the door as they slowly (probably slower than they had to, just to be a bastard) made their way out of his bedroom. 

“You should just shag him and-”

“I said shut it!” Crowley yelled before slamming the door in their face and locking it, just to be sure. Beez respected his privacy, but he really didn’t need his sibling walking in on him with what he planned to do next. 

He didn’t even take the time to remove his clothes, simply lay down on the bed, pulled his tracksuit bottoms down to the tops of his thighs and grabbed his cock. It had flagged a bit, what with him yelling at Beez to vacate, but thoughts of Aziraphale’s soft mouth and yearning eyes brought his erection back with a vengeance after only a few slow strokes. 

_Dear god_ , but Aziraphale had looked so fucking _good_ tonight. So vulnerable, so soft, so _willing_ . Crowley moaned and closed his eyes as he played through a fantasy of what would have happened if they _had_ kissed, and he felt the reality of his bedroom drop away around him. 

He pictured their lips meeting, what that would feel like. How it might start tentatively and then gain momentum as the pent up desire overtook them both, until he was sucking Aziraphale’s tongue into his mouth and biting at his lower lip. Crowley worked himself slowly to the thoughts of what Aziraphale would taste like. Mint tea probably. How lovely. 

He imagined climbing into the other man’s lap and grinding them together and had to clamp a hand over his mouth because the thought had him making an embarrassingly wrecked noise, something halfway between a moan and a sob. He could feel Aziraphale’s hands gripping his arse and pulling him closer. He imagined the clumsy, frantic process of removing their trousers, how Aziraphale might flip them until he was on top of Crowley on the sofa. His hand moved faster on his cock as he pictured wrapping his legs around Azirapahle’s hips and rutting against him, their mouths joined in the wet, slippery movement of an unending, sloppy kiss. 

His orgasm was swiftly approaching, and to help it along, he imagined Azirapahle losing control on top of him from the friction of them rubbing together, shooting hot semen over Crowley’s stomach and up onto his chest, gasping out the most lovely noises as he did so. The thought was too much for Crowley and he stroked himself even faster for a second, until the tantalizing spark of his impending orgasm became a blissful rush, and he came, hard. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his moans and had just enough presence of mind to pull the bottom of his shirt up and clear as he shot cum all over his pumping fist. If he’d been alone in the flat, he’d have called out Aziraphale’s name, like the lost fool he knew he’d become. 

He lay there for a long time afterward, reveling in the afterglow of a mind bending orgasm, and imagining Aziraphale enfolding him in a warm embrace and stroking his hair, until the nagging sense of shame (and the unpleasant feel of swiftly cooling semen on his belly) forced him to get up and go wash off in the shower attached to his bedroom. Then, when he’d cleaned up and gotten dressed again, he unlocked and opened the door a crack so that Beez could get to the flat’s only loo in the night. He curled up on his side on the bed and struggled to fall asleep. 

Finally, after going through the well worn routine of scolding himself for indulging in thoughts of sex with an unavailable man, then slowly coming to terms with it yet again, he felt sleep reach up and pull him under. His last thought before succumbing to unconsciousness was the memory of how it felt to finally have Aziraphale in his arms.


	17. Chapter 17

Aziraphale climbed the stairs to his shared bedroom with Gabriel, his head spinning with thoughts of Crowley. He could still smell the man’s scent clinging to his clothing and the side of his cheek where it had pressed against Crowley’s soft hair when they’d embraced. 

He entered the bedroom to find Gabriel already in bed with the lights out, so he grabbed some pyjamas from a drawer as silently as he could and went to the bathroom to change. He washed his face and hands as well, just in case Gabriel could smell the perfume from Crowley’s shampoo on Aziraphale’s body. He felt like he’d cheated on his husband when all he’d done was embrace Crowley. Sighing as he opened the door to the bedroom again and prepared to slip in next to Gabriel, he realized that he may not have been sexually unfaithful, but he was becoming more and more emotionally unfaithful as the days wore on. 

Gabriel half-woke with a grunt when Aziraphale got into bed, then immediately rolled over and draped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale stiffened slightly at the sudden contact, but relaxed into it after a few, hesitant seconds, enjoying the warmth and the random act of affection, even if it  _ was _ while his husband was semi conscious. 

“You sexy fucking thing,” his husband murmured in his sleep, thrusting a half hard erection against Aziraphale’s buttocks before his breathing evened out again and he began to snore. 

_ Who was that for _ ? Wondered Aziraphale, not for a moment believing that Gabriel meant to say that racy little statement to  _ Aziraphale _ . Probably some groupie he fancied, or just a randy dream. Aziraphale sighed as he tried to settle down and relax. He couldn’t help his thoughts from returning to Crowley, how his arms had come around Aziraphale’s waist when they’d hugged, feeling so right. The man’s sweet smell. The softness of his long red hair against Aziraphale’s cheek. 

He’d barely been able to believe it when Crowley had opened his arms and welcomed Aziraphale in for a hug. Before he’d had a chance to talk himself out of it, his legs had acted of their own accord and propelled him into Crowley’s arms. The feel of that long, lanky body pressed against him, the slender arms squeezing him so warmly about the middle. Aziraphale had wanted to stay there, wrapped in Crowley’s embrace, wanted to start swaying as if they were at a primary school dance. Like all the dances he’d avoided as a pre teen.

But he hadn’t stayed, hadn’t lingered, swaying in Crowley’s embrace. He’d pulled away (very regretfully), had headed back to the house. And when he’d turned around, right at the last minute to look back the way he’d come, he’d fully expected Crowley’s door to be closed, for Crowley to be gone, but instead, the man had been standing there, looking after him. 

_ He wants me back _

He tried not to let that thought completely consume his brain, but now, lying in the darkness, with Gabriel’s heavy arm lying across his waist, unable to sleep, his mind came back again and again to Crowley. His angular face and large golden eyes. His sly mouth, that always seemed about to say something crass or cocky, but instead came out with the sweetest, most sincere things.

_ He wants me. He does. I can feel it in how he looks at me. _

That moment on the sofa, they’d been about to kiss. He could feel the pull of the kiss dragging him toward Crowley as inexorably as the event horizon of a black hole. If his mobile hadn’t gone off just then, it would have happened. And Aziraphale really couldn’t think too much beyond that point, or else he’d be lying in his sleeping husband’s embrace with a stiff cock from fantasizing about another man. And that was a little too disrespectful for Aziraphale’s taste. So he concentrated on banishing thoughts of Crowley’s face and body and voice, and mostly succeeded. 

Eventually Gabriel rolled away and back onto his side of the bed and Aziraphale was finally able to relax enough to fall asleep. He wasn’t sure what to do about this situation, but he’d think about it in the morning. He prayed that a new day would bring a new perspective as he slipped into a fitful sleep.

__________________________________________________________

The next two days went by swiftly. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was more due to the fact that he spent quite a bit of time with Beez and Crowley, or because Gabriel seemed extra pleased with himself and with Aziraphale. There was no denying it, the man was in a good mood. They even spent an enjoyable evening Tuesday night watching a silly romantic comedy and snuggling on the couch. Gabriel seemed uninterested in sex, which was fine with Aziraphale, who hadn’t stopped being consumed with tantalizing thoughts of Crowley since Monday evening. But there was more physical affection from Gabriel regardless and Aziraphale reveled in it, like a starving plant reaching for water. These cuddles and chaste kisses from Gabriel helped Aziraphale to realize just how touch starved he’d become, living out here in the woods with a mostly-absent husband. 

Aziraphale’s parents had been relatively affectionate physically. They weren’t cold or cruel, and little Aziraphale had stories read to him at bedtime, kisses, hugs and cuddles from his mother, and regular hair mussings and embraces from his father. Once he’d hit his teenage years, the touches had dwindled. Perhaps it was because he’d gotten less adorable. More gangly, more man-shaped and less little boy shaped. After moving out, he’d gone without touch entirely until meeting Anathema and Deirdre and (to a more grandmotherly degree, Tracy) who were incredibly affectionate. Anathema would routinely hug him, kiss him on the cheek, hold his hand… and Deirdre, the slightly more reserved friend would still embrace him regularly upon saying hello and goodbye and there were lots of companionable shoulder bumps and pats on the hand. 

Since moving to Athena, Aziraphale had been forced to rely on Gabriel for all his physical touch needs, and Gabriel (who’d once been quite affectionate, earlier on in their relationship) had withdrawn in recent years, leaving Aziraphale longing for more human contact.

The immediate physical affection from Beez had felt so warm and so reassuring, and embracing Crowley the night before? Indescribable. Aziraphale found himself longing for more physical connection with Crowley. And the longing was all the sharper for the fact that Crowley sat behind a wall of impenetrable boundaries. 

And yet, for some reason, these two days before Gabriel took off again for the city had been some of the most affectionate days between them since long before moving to the states. Aziraphale wasn’t sure where this newfound warmth was coming from, but he soaked it up nonetheless. 

And then, Thursday rolled around and Gabriel paused from writing out a quick email on his work phone to pull Aziraphale in for a warm kiss before heading down to the driveway to get into Crowley’s car, off to the city yet again. Aziraphale had mixed feelings about Gabriel’s latest trip. The dinner and the talk about their marriage on Monday night had felt so stilted and unproductive. Gabriel had promised to do better, but his eyes when he’d said it had felt distant. Perhaps though, something had clicked, and he really had decided to try harder.

And then there was the pure fact that Azirpahale was falling in love with someone else. _Had_ _fallen_ , if he were truthful. He still loved his husband, but it had become more and more platonic as the weeks had gone by since he’d begun getting closer to Crowley. Was his marriage something he wanted to keep working on? In what world would Gabriel regain the qualities of a good and supportive husband? It had been probably a decade that they’d been having problems. Did Aziraphale really think that Gabriel would do an about face and suddenly bring him roses, petition him for more sex, support his life choices? 

Aziraphale was frightfully confused. He watched the two men drive away with a head full of conflicting thoughts and contrasting desires. 

Beez was due to leave tomorrow, if the plan to let them stay for a week were to be followed, that is, but Aziraphale had a strong suspicion that Gabriel hadn’t even noticed Beez’s existence and that Crowley’s sibling staying a few more days would not cause any issues. They were rather small and unassuming, taking up not much space and eating sparingly (a family trait apparently, as Crowley also ate like a bird.)

Aziraphale invited Beez down for breakfast and they gladly accepted. The two of them spent an enjoyable morning over pancakes and bacon, though this time, they eschewed the mimosas for cups of coffee. Beez stayed away from the subject of Crowley, for which Aziraphale was actually somewhat relieved. He didn’t have the strength to be teased about his connection to Beez’s brother, or asked probing intimate questions at the moment. And so they chatted about Beez’s past, their drug addiction and long string of unhealthy relationships with unstable people. Beez told them about how they’d gone to a specialized rehab program, financed, ironically by the money they’d made selling drugs (what was left of it that hadn’t gone up their nose anyway,) supplemented with a loan from a good friend. In rehab, they’d learned important coping mechanisms and meditations to help them avoid urges and had really grown through the group therapy sessions. 

Aziraphale had touched on Gabriel’s work, which dealt with a lot of similar concepts. Developing psychological and emotional tools to help work through difficult situations. Gabriel really was quite good at what he did, and his books were fantastic guides for couples, or even singles to learn more about themselves and how better to interact with those they held dear. The man hadn’t risen to the level of fame he had by simply blowing hot air. Aziraphale even taught Beez an exercise involving seeing one's difficult emotions as shapes and colors in order to help them dissipate. 

Beez acknowledged grudgingly that Gabriel was indeed talented, though Aziraphale realized that they probably loathed the man, based solely on Aziraphale’s own testimony. 

“What are your plans for the future Beez darling?” he’d asked gently, not wanting to come across as paternal, but feeling paternal anyway… or perhaps avuncular. 

“Not sure,” They replied, pushing a last bite of pancake around their plate through a small puddle of syrup. “I spent so many years doing the wrong thing, that I’m not sure what the right thing even is.”

“Do you have any interests, hobbies?”

“Yeah,” they replied with a shrug. “I draw a lot. Got quite good at it really. Was thinking maybe I could learn to do tattoos.”

“Oh that would be lovely!” Aziraphale replied smiling broadly. “You’ll have to give me my first tattoo then.”

Beez had raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “You, with a tattoo? Come on cream puff. Hardly your style is it?”

Aziraphale shrugged, feeling impulsive and irreverent. “Why not? I’ve been making some changes lately. Perhaps I shall become the type of person who gets tattoos… Though to be honest, I’ve given zero thought to what I’d want to get.”

“Maybe a massive flaming sword on your forearm?” Beez suggested with a wink and Aziraphale chuckled at the impossible image of him with such a large and gaudy and frankly ludicrous image permanently etched into his skin. 

At Aziraphale’s urging, Beez had run back to the apartment to fetch a large notebook and showed Aziraphale their work. They were indeed incredibly talented. The pictures (of highly detailed houseflies, a hyper realistic lizard and several beautiful renderings of glossy looking snakes) were good in the kind of way that had Aziraphale gushing without having to force it to be polite. “I like insects and reptiles.” Beez said by way of explanation. 

“In all seriousness,” Aziraphale remarked, giving Beez’s hand a squeeze where it rested between them on the breakfast table, “I think you’d make a fantastic tattoo artist.”

“Thanks,” they replied, blushing and ducking their head, clearly a bit uncomfortable with praise. 

After breakfast, Beez had begged off, saying they were planning to get an uber over to Poughkeepsie later to check out the nightlife, hearing that there was a new bar in town frequented by local queer people. They offered to have Aziraphale tag along, but he’d declined. “At my age dear, ‘night life’ usually involves a nice cup of tea and a book, but thank you.” 

He’d spent the afternoon writing more lovesick poetry, replaying the almost-kiss with Crowley and that fantastic hug, the feeling of which was indelibly marked on his brain for all eternity. His poetry sounded horrid to him though, full of reductive imagery and well worn tropes. After half an hour he’d given up in disgust.

He wandered into the kitchen an hour or so later to find a snack and a faint buzzing noise from above the sink alerted him to the fact that Gabriel’s personal mobile phone had been left on the kitchen shelf. The man must have been so distracted with packing and leaving that he’d left it behind. 

He immediately went and got his own mobile and tapped out a text to his husband’s work phone,

**_Darling, you’ve left your personal phone here. What shall I do with it?_ **

The reply came back almost immediately

**_Shit! Was in a teleconference meeting the whole drive down and didn’t notice. I NEED THAT PHONE. Babe, would you fedex to me? Account number is 187-33-1100_ **

Aziraphale smiled indulgently and texted back  **_of course my dear_ **

He reached for Gabriel’s phone and just then, the screen lit up with a text notification coming in. Aziraphale shouldn’t have looked. He was a firm believer in privacy, but it was right there in front of his face. It was the sort of mobile that showed you a snippet of incoming texts, and the first few words were displayed pulsing across the glowing screen.

**_Can’t wait for u to suck this_ **

Aziraphale felt all the blood leave his head in a rush and his scalp prickled with a sudden urge to hurl the phone across the room. The text was impossible to see in any other way than sexual. The display showed the number ‘2’, meaning there were two texts in the queue currently. This most recent one being the second one to come in. 

Trying to get his galloping heart beat under control, he executed the pattern that Gabriel drew on the face of his phone in order to unlock it. Aziraphlae had watched him move his finger across the surface of his mobile probably five hundred times over the past year that the man had had this particular model, and so after only three tries he was able to unlock the phone. He went swiftly to the text message app, knowing that he was violating Gabriel’s privacy, but not caring. He needed to know the truth behind the shocking words on the screen. The words that were making his stomach turn sour and his armpits damp with fear-sweat. 

He saw a list of text headings with names like ‘Michael’ and ‘Gina’ (Gabriel’s personal assistant), and at the top of the list was a contact marked only as ‘J’ with a glowing red number ‘2’ next to it. He clicked on the text thread with a shaking finger and gasped in shock upon seeing what had just come in. 

The most recent text was simply the same words he’d read on the face of Gabriel’s mobile, ‘can’t wait for you to suck this’, but the one immediately prior to that was a picture. 

A picture of someone’s erect cock. 

Aziraphale let Gabriel’s mobile fall from his suddenly numb fingers and it clattered loudly to the floor. He felt faint and nauseated. Bending to pick the phone up again in a daze, he scrolled up, past the picture of the erect penis to see if there were other photos. Surprisingly, there were not, but there were a plethora of other damning text messages. Lots of talk about meeting up after “the show”, talk about where to get dinner, talk about when Gabriel would be in town. ‘J’ and he, whomever this young man was (for the hand wrapped around the base of the cock in the picture he’d sent Gabriel was smooth and milky pale. The hand of a very young man indeed) had been having a text exchange for what looked like weeks if not months. 

Aziraphale felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He was such a fool. He should have known that Gabriel was stepping out on him. In fact, he probably  _ had _ known. He’d certainly suspected it from time to time. It was the matching trope to the lonely housewife, lusting after the hot young pool boy wasn’t it? The successful husband, cheating on his wife with a sexy young thing. Usually a personal assistant, only Gabriel’s assistants were female. And this individual was quite clearly male. 

The mobile vibrated again and Aziraphale nearly dropped it a second time in surprise as another text came in from J.

**_I know you said not to send pics, but I woke up thinking of u putting ur mouth on me and this happened. Can’t wait to see u latr._ **

Aziraphale wasn’t sure which was more insulting. The fact that Gabriel was cheating on him, or the fact that he was cheating with what was apparently a secondary school student with horrid grammar. He briefly contemplated sending a vicious text back, but confrontation had never been his style. And this poor boy, whomever he was, wasn’t at fault here.  _ Gabriel _ was clearly the one to blame. 

It was that exact moment, with Gabriel’s mobile in his hands, looking down at the ridiculous string of immature, baudy texts some barely legal boy had sent his husband of twenty years that Aziraphale finally decided he’d had enough. It was shamefully late in the game to make such a decision. He should have left Gabriel when the nasty comments had started up. Or when the sex had stopped and Gabriel had started treating him like a not-very-respected aquaintance, rather than the man he’d chosen to share his life with. Aziraphale should never have left his home, his beloved bookshop, his darling friends. He should have stayed in Soho and let Gabriel go on without him. 

He knew thoughts like these were pointless. He’d fallen in love, gotten married, moved to the US to support a man he genuinely thought was a caring partner. His only real crime was in hanging on too long and trying to make it work with a bastard like Gabriel. He’d have plenty of time for grief and self criticism later. Now, he’d need to send Gabriel’s phone to him. He had no desire to keep it, or destroy it. He  _ did _ however take a few photos of the text messages and the cock picture with his own mobile, as evidence should he need to confront Gabriel about the cheating in a more legal capacity. He had no idea how divorces worked when men as rich and famous as his husband were involved, but he had a feeling that being able to prove that the man was cheating wouldn’t hurt. 

Being that Crowley was off, driving Aziraphale’s unfaithful husband to the city, he took an uber to the local FedEx location in town, and placed the mobile phone, along with his wedding ring and a brief note into a padded envelope and sent it off to Gabriel via overnight delivery. 

The note had been simple and to the point. 

_ Gabriel, _

_ I’ve seen the picture from J and I know you’ve been stepping out on me. I’d like a divorce please. I won’t be here when you return, but I would like to schedule a time to come collect my things. Also, I’ll be calling a divorce lawyer. I wish this had gone differently.  _

_ \- Aziraphale _

He ubered back to the house, and as the driver pulled up, he could see that Crowley had returned from conveying Gabriel to the city. He thanked the uber driver, wished her a distracted good day, and went straightway to the house. He swiftly packed a bag of his clothes, a few of his favorite books and some personal items he’d need for a few nights in a hotel. He told Agnes that he’d be away for a little while and not to worry, that Gabriel would likely be home early from his trip, but that she’d definitely have tonight and most of tomorrow off. She’d asked if everything was alright, and he’d given her a wan smile and a squeeze on the shoulder, telling her he was fine and that he appreciated her patience. Then he’d gone straight over to Crowley’s apartment and rang the bell.

He was finished with hiding and depriving himself. Finished with Gabriel, and finished with this life of being a pet bird, trapped in this gilded cage of a house in the middle of the blasted woods. 

He heard the thump-thump of Crowley’s feet coming down the stairs and summoned up his strength, willing himself not to turn and run. 


	18. Chapter 18

Crowley heard the doorbell chime and felt his heart leap at the thought that it would likely be Aziraphale who’d pressed it. He’d arrived home from dropping off Gabriel only half an hour ago, and found a note from Beez that they’d fucked off to Poughkeepsie for the night. There wasn’t anyone else on the property, so he wasn’t surprised when he reached the bottom of the stairs and found Aziraphale waiting for him on the other side of his door. 

The joyous smile that started blooming on his face died swiftly when he saw the other man however. Aziraphale was always pale, but now, he looked practically ghostly. He was quite clearly very worried and incredibly nervous, standing on Crowley’s doorstep, his hands twisting together, brow furrowed and mouth pressed into a thin, colorless line. It was then that Crowley looked down and noticed a packed suitcase next to him on the ground.

“Aziraphale,” he said, taking off his shades, his mind racing with the implications of his friend appearing at the door with a packed bag, looking like he’d just seen a ghost. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” replied Aziraphale, the tremor in his voice instantly betraying his words. 

“Will you come in? Have some coffee? Some tea?” He paused for a second before adding “a stiff drink?”

“Thank you for the offer Crowley, but I’ve actually come to ask you a favor.”

“Sure, anything,” Crowley replied automatically, then realized he meant it with all his heart. If that suitcase was full of stolen drugs or mafia money, he’d help Aziraphale flee the country, then perjure himself in court to cover Aziraphale’s tracks. He would do anything for Aziraphale, and the knowledge of that fact hit him like a sudden bolt out of the blue. 

“I need a ride. To a hotel. I’ll be spending a few nights away from the house.”

“What happened? Are you alright?” Crowley stepped closer and put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, hoping to ease some of his obvious anxiety.

“I’m fine my dear. Perhaps I can explain on the way. Would we be able to leave soon? I know Beez is out of town, and I’d want to make sure you get back here in time to meet them.”

“Sure, that’s not a problem,” Crowley reassured him. “They can take care of themself, and they probably won’t be back until late. Let me just grab my jacket and my wallet. I’ll be back down in a minute.”

Aziraphale nodded and so Crowley rushed upstairs and grabbed his things in record time before taking the stairs back down two at a time. He chided himself for seeming so eager to leap to do Aziraphale’s bidding, but didn’t waste too much time on that. The man was clearly very upset and needed to leave the property immediately. It was a situation that needed an expedient solution regardless of how Crowley felt. 

He pulled the car out immediately and rushed to put Aziraphale’s suitcase in the trunk. He got behind the wheel and was surprised to find that Aziraphale had already slid in beside him in the front passenger seat. 

The blond man kept his eyes trained forward, not outwardly acknowledging this sudden and surprising change in their normal routine, and so Crowley wisely kept his mouth shut. Also, this close, he could smell Aziraphale’s delightful scent of vanilla and bergamot, only slightly undercut by the tang of nervous sweat. He could almost feel the heat radiating off the thick, soft man sitting next to him, and it was distracting and enticing at the same time. He slipped his shades out of the front pocket of his shirt and back onto his face in order to hide his nervous eyes. It was bright out, so he had plausible deniability. Not that Aziraphale seemed to notice, what with the state he was in currently.

As Crowley pulled the car out of the drive, heading for the closest mid-grade hotel, a fifteen minute drive away in a neighboring town, Aziraphale began to speak. 

“As you’ve probably guessed from my suitcase and my urgent need to leave the property, I have made a decision regarding my marriage.” He began. 

Crowley grunted in acknowledgement, not wanting to distract the man, but wanting him to know that Crowley was here and was listening. He struggled not to betray the fact that his heart had started racing a mile a minute at the first mention of trouble in Aziraphale’s marriage.

“Gabriel forgot his personal mobile at home when he left earlier today,” Aziraphale continued. “I picked it up and there was a… well… a rather racy text message that had just come in.” 

Crowley felt his blood begin to boil at this new piece of information, but he kept his face carefully neutral and waited for Aziraphale to tell him more. 

“I opened his phone… I know I shouldn’t have. It was frightfully inappropriate for me to do so, but what’s done is done…”

Crowley veritably twitched with the urge to reassure Aziraphale that he’d done absolutely nothing wrong, but he still kept silent. 

“In addition to the racy text message,” Aziraphale continued, “there was also a picture of a young man’s... cock. A young man who has apparently been having an affair with my husband for several weeks now.” 

Aziraphale’s voice shook gently, from nervousness or emotion or a mix of both, but other than that, he seemed relatively calm. Crowley wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Tears? Anger? A few choice expletives maybe? But Aziraphale was apparently not the hysterical type. He continued speaking in a measured, almost neutral tone, to the backdrop of Crowley’s galloping heartbeat.

“I took photos of the text messages for evidence, then I shipped the phone back to him overnight, in a package that also contained my wedding ring and a brief note informing him that I’d like a divorce.” Aziraphale said, as calm as you please.

Crowley felt an unrestrained, wild sort of joy leap inside his chest at hearing this news, but he didn’t want to be tasteless and so he simply nodded, saying “Aziraphale, I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“I doubt that you’re all that sorry,” Aziraphale remarked wryly.

“Well, yes, you’re right. It’s probably no surprise to hear that I’ve never been all that fond of Gabriel, but… I _am_ sorry that he’s betrayed your trust in this way.” Crowley explained. Aziraphale nodded, looking as if he understood. 

“I thought it prudent to leave the property, as firstly, I don’t want to be there when Gabriel returns. And, also, I don’t think I can stand to be in _his_ house one more minute.”

“Makes sense,” Crowley agreed, keeping his tone carefully neutral, while inside, he felt like singing.. 

“I plan on spending the next few nights, perhaps a week or so in the hotel while I get in contact with a divorce lawyer and talk details, and then, I plan on returning to London.”

“Wow! OK. Well that’s great,” Crowley was more than a little impressed by Aziraphale’s decisiveness. He’d seen the man hem and haw and beat himself up over this sham of a marriage for the past year and he was beyond happy to hear that Aziraphale was finally gaining his freedom. Even if it meant the possible dissolution of his job and losing the man when he flew back home across the ocean. That sudden realization, that Aziraphale would leave, quickly sobered his joyous mood.

“It was about time,” Aziraphale sighed. “I was a fool not to have seen this before now.”  
  


“You’re not a fool.” Crowley immediately countered Aziraphale’s statement. “The man was really sneaky. There was no way you could have known.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “Did you ever see any sign of infidelity?” he asked Crowley, his voice hesitant, clearly preparing for the possibility that Crowley could have seen something.

“Honestly no,” Crowley replied, and it was the truth. Gabriel hadn’t ever let anything slip during his rides to and from the city or the airport. No slips of the tongue, no forgotten phone numbers written on cocktail napkins accidentally left in the back seat. “I saw no indication on my end.” 

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale responded glumly, “it was such an obvious move for him to make. He’s so self centered and so sexually adventurous. I should have known that less sex for me meant more sex for someone else.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Crowley placated, daring to reach down and pat the other man’s hand where it rested on the seat between them. To his surprise and delight, Azirpahale turned his hand over and squeezed Crowley’s briefly before pulling away again.

“Thank you for being so understanding, Crowley. I know this doesn’t concern you.”

“You’re my _friend,_ ” Crowley said, a little more vehemently than he’d meant to. “And I care about you. So of course this concerns me,” he finished, gripping the steering wheel with the effort of stopping there, of not spilling out more than that simple yet bold declaration. 

“Thank you for saying that Crowley. I consider you my friend as well.” Aziraphale paused, his body language (what Crowley could see of it through the corner of his eye as he drove) betraying a clear desire to say something more. But then apparently he gave up on it and sank back down into his seat, hands twisting together in his lap. 

They pulled up at the hotel a few minutes later and Crowley waited in the car while Aziraphale went to the front desk to purchase a room. He returned, key cards in hand and Crowley drove them around to the south side of the hotel’s parking lot, to the entrance closer to Aziraphale’s room. He insisted on carrying Aziraphale’s suitcase inside. It was quite heavy, and so he waved away Aziraphale’s flutters of concern over putting Crowley out with a terse “Just let me carry it for you angel. I’ll feel like a heel if I don’t.” He lugged the suitcase out of the trunk and followed Aziraphale through the glass doors and down the tackily carpeted hotel hallway until they arrived at the appropriate room. Aziraphale let them in with the key card and Crowley dutifully deposited the suitcase onto the queen sized bed closest to the door. 

He watched as Aziraphale went to investigate the bathroom, returning quickly with a small frown on his face. “Well, the Taj Mahal it is not, but it’ll certainly do in a pinch,” he said with a sniff.

His good breeding and somewhat posh, upper middle class upbringing were never quite so apparent than now, as Crowley watched Aziraphale swan about the hotel room, tutting at the state of the curtains and nervously opening up the tiny fridge to frown at its contents. Why this, for some reason made Crowley’s heart so soft and mushy was a mystery to him. 

“Well,” he prompted. “Is there anything else you need? I should probably get back to the house in case-”

“Oh my dear! I’m sorry!” Aziraphale left off his perusal of the hotel room to face Crowley, his hands clasped nervously over his belly. He took a deep breath and stepped a bit closer, his eyes downcast and his entire demeanor one of someone apologizing for something. For what, Crowley had not a clue.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you Crowley,” Aziraphale said, the nervous tremor lacing its way back into his tone. “In fact, if you’d see your way to staying for a little while,” here he paused, implicitly asking Crowley if he were able to stay and Crowley nodded in response. “Good,” continued Aziraphale, “there are several things I think we need to discuss. Won’t you have a seat?” He walked over and sat on the bed further from the door, and so Crowley moved to sit next to the suitcase, facing him on the other bed.

Aziraphale didn’t speak right away. He seemed to be preparing himself, bracing himself to say something unpleasant. Crowley felt a cold fist clench inside his belly at the thought of what Aziraphale could have to say that would make him this dreadfully uncomfortable. He quickly marshaled his own strength and decided to try and cut Aziraphale off at the pass.

“Look,” he began, “if it’s about the job, that’s not a problem. I can resign. I’d happily resign. I don’t want to be there if you’re not, and I can’t imagine driving that man anywhere I-”

“It’s not just the job, Crowley,” Aziraphale sounded a touch exasperated and he was back to twisting his hands together. He looked wretched. “Though,” he added, his voice gentling, “I will absolutely understand if you wish to quit. I wouldn’t blame you. And if Gabriel gives you one lick of trouble, tries to trick you out of any of your pay or makes any sorts of threats toward you, or to Beez, you must tell me at once so that I can handle it through legal channels. And if you’d like, I’d happily put both you and your sibling up in this hotel, or any lodging of your choosing if you decide to also vacate the property,” he added magnanimously.

“Thanks Aziraphale. That’s very kind of you,” Crowley replied, nodding to show that he heard and understood what Aziaphale had said, still unsure of why the man looked so unhappy. 

“Speaking of the job, now that you’ve brought it up,” the other man went on, “I’ll make sure to give you excellent references for when you apply for your next position, and I’ll make certain that Gabriel doesn’t try to ruin things for you in that regard.”

They both knew why Gabriel would try to ruin Crowley’s career. He was a possessive, jealous, competitive man, and Crowley resigning from his position on the same day that Aziraphale asked for a divorce would look dreadfully suspicious. “Yeah, I appreciate that,” Crowley replied cautiously. “I'm almost certain he’ll get the wrong idea about my leaving.” 

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale said, looking down at his hands, then up at the ceiling, anywhere but at Crowley’s face. Crowley belatedly remembered that he was still wearing his sunglasses and took them off, folding them and putting them on the bed next to him. That seemed to do the trick, for Aziraphale once again began to flick his eyes back up to Crowley’s face. Looking away briefly, then back again as if afraid of what he might see. 

“He’s long suspected of me of having…of me being… well... attracted to you,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley thought his heart might beat its way out of his chest and land in his lap with the way it was hammering inside his rib cage. 

“Is that so?” he managed, his mouth suddenly dry as a sandstorm. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his eyes trained resolutely on his own nervously twisting hands in his lap. “He was convinced I fancied you, but since you were straight, he didn’t think you were a threat. A part of me wonders if you were _meant_ to be a distraction for me. To keep me from looking too closely at his behavior because I had some new eye candy driving me around town.” Crowley watched with a nervous half-smile as Aziraphale realized what he’d just said and swiftly tried to amend it with heartwarming sincerity, his hands coming up to wave in the air as if erasing his last words, his face scrunching in embarrassment. “Please don’t mind my turn of phrase Crowley. You’re far more than a pretty face. This is only what _Gabriel_ _thought_ , not the actual truth.”

“So, you weren’t distracted by me?” Crowley knew it wasn’t the right time to tease Aziraphale, but he also thought he just might be losing his mind a little and so, why not? 

“Oh! No, no, I assure you, you were quite distracting,” Aziraphale said, then turned a deep shade of pink and gulped audibly. “Quite distracting,” he repeated softly, unable to look Crowley in the eyes. 

“I’d hate to have been the cause of any strife between you,” Crowley said, just to have _something_ to say, because it seemed appropriate to the situation. Otherwise, he’d likely burst into flames with the inexorable direction this conversation was taking.

“No Crowley, no, it was fine. Just another thing to add to the heaps of unspoken tension in our marriage. You didn’t make it any worse.”

“Good,” Crowley replied, falling silent as he waited for Aziraphale to continue. Clearly the man had more to say, otherwise he wouldn’t look so utterly wretched. 

As if on cue, Aziraphale spoke up and confirmed his suspicions. “There _is_ one more matter I’d like to discuss with you,” he said, his cheeks still pink, biting worriedly at his lower lip.

“Yeah, go for it.” Crowley couldn’t really handle saying anything more articulate at the moment and settled for trying in vain to slow his pulse while he kept his eyes trained on Aziraphale, watching the swiftly moving clouds of nervousness and anxiety ghost over the pale landscape of the man's face. 

“I’m not sure how to say this,” Aziraphale continued, still looking miserable, still not able to look at Crowley for more than a second or two at a time. He cleared his throat and took another deep breath, seeming to reach an internal decision.

“Crowley,” he said, “I think I’ve gone and fallen in love with you.” 

Crowley wasn’t sure he’d fully heard Aziraphale’s last statement through the banging of his heart and the sudden uptick of his respiration. Before he could regain his shattered equilibrium and even begin to contemplate how to respond, Aziraphale had started speaking again. 

“It didn’t happen right away. At first, I really just thought you were an attractive new employee who didn’t speak all that often, and of course I thought you were straight-”

“I’m _not_ straight,” Crowley interrupted briefly, hating to cut Aziraphale off at such a delicate time but not wanting to hear that description come out of Aziraphale’s mouth in regard to him ever again. “I’m attracted to men. I know Beez told you, but I sort of feel the need to repeat myself.” 

Aziraphale gave him a wan half-smile. “Yes, thank you for confirming the truth, but for a very long time, I thought I’d be the last person you could ever want to be with, and I was married on top of that, and so I just kept it bottled up… the attraction I felt for you.” He paused briefly, seeming to gather his thoughts and then continued. “It got… well, it got worse and worse. Being around you, not being able to tell you how I felt… not being able to touch…” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley _had to tell him_ , had to make it clear that he felt the same way, that his heart was an exploding supernova of joy just then, but Aziraphale held up a gentle hand to forestall him yet again. 

  
“Please let me finish my dear, I need to get this all out, once and for all, and it’s quite difficult enough without the interruptions.”

Crowley nodded obediently and shut his mouth, striving valiantly to stay seated. 

“And so, my feelings for you only grew stronger and stronger as the days went by. Us working together in the greenhouse, us talking on long drives, it started to get quite painful if I’m being completely honest. Seeing you every day, wanting you and not being able to do anything about it. I wanted my marriage to work you see. I wanted to prove to my parents and to the world that we could stay together, and what with Gabriel’s whole career hinging on the success of our union… well, there was quite a lot of pressure.”

Crowley felt a deep pang of sympathy for the beautiful, distraught man sitting across from him. The urge to enfold Aziraphale in his arms was becoming near unbearable, but he stayed where he was and waited for Aziraphale to finish speaking. He could give him that much. 

“And so here we are. I no longer want to be married. I don’t want to live in Athena anymore. I don’t want to be a kept trophy husband any longer. I am _sick to death_ of being coddled and paid for and _owned_.” he said fervently, his twisting hands balling into determined fists on top of his thighs. “I have no clue as to whether you could ever return my feelings, but if you do, I want to be given the chance to… well… to be with you. That is, if you could possibly see your way to-”

“Angel,” Crowley said softly. He had had about enough. He stood and stepped closer, looking down at Aziraphale with his heart full of bleeding, yearning, ridiculous love. “Angel, you don’t have to say anything else. Would you please stand up?”

Aziraphale, looking a little lost, obediently stood and Crowley immediately pulled him into a fierce embrace. He felt Aziraphale’s arms come around his waist and squeeze him tightly, almost desperately, and he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and pressed the side of his face to Aziraphale’s silky cheek. 

“ _Dear god_ angel, I’ve been gone on you forever. For the longest time,” he whispered roughly into Aziraphale’s soft hair, feeling tears of relief and joy leap to his eyes and tumble down his cheeks. “I’m so in love with you that I may have gone a bit mad from it,” he admitted with a wet chuckle. 

“You’re in love with me?” Aziraphale pulled back and looked at Crowley with such surprise, and such pained, cautious hope, that Crowley swore then and there to never let Aziraphale wonder for another moment of his life whether or not he was loved. 

“I’m head over heels in love with you,” he said in a gruff whisper, looking deeply into those stormy blue-gray eyes. “It’s the kind of love that makes it hard to sleep sometimes. The kind that has me walking into walls if I don’t watch where I’m going. I’m so sorry, I should have told you sooner, I-” he was prevented from saying anything further because Aziraphale’s expression had gone quite determined all of a sudden and he'd leaned forward and pressed his lips to Crowley’s. And then they were kissing. 

_They were kissing._ Those soft, expressive lips Crowley had dreamed about for a solid year were against his own, feeling like silk on top of rose petals on top of velvet. Crowley’s brain ceased to function properly, and he heard the most ridiculous noise make its way out of the back of this throat as he surrendered completely to the feel of Azirapale’s mouth on his own. He heard an answering noise… a soft, surprised moan come from Aziraphale and he felt Aziraphale’s mouth begin to open against his. He pulled back, drunk, wasted, head spinning as their eyes met again.

“Angel,” Crowley, his voice going a little dark with lust, focused his eyes on Azirpahale’s parted lips. “If you open your mouth and… if you… if I taste the inside of your mouth, I’m done for. If you let me in, I’ll be in serious trouble. I’ll be a total wreck. I’ve had my heart broken once. It was... so painful.” 

“Oh my dearest, darling boy,” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone kind, and a little sad, and so full of longing that the sight of them had Crowley feeling weak. “I can’t promise never to hurt you, but, I _can_ promise to try very hard not to. Crowley darling, I want to _explore_ you. I want to _learn_ you. To _read_ you. I want, above all _to be with you_.” He sounded as if he were beseeching Crowley, and maybe he was. Asking him to trust in the thing that had always ended in pain, over and over again before now. This union they both craved but had been oh so scared to reach for was terrifying to both of them. 

“I want you so very badly,” Aziraphale said, his eyes roaming over Crowley’s face, pupils blown wide and dark, brows knitted together with the sincerity of his words. 

With a sigh, Crowley leaned back in, “Angel, I’m yours,” he whispered in the moment before their lips melted back together. 

The kiss, that had started somewhat chastely, just a soft, firm press of lips, a show of strong affection, swiftly became something else entirely for the second round. Before Crowley knew what had happened, the fingers of both his hands were clenched gently in Aziraphale’s soft curls and their mouths had opened against each other, and their tongues and lips were mixing in a slick, insanely arousing dance. Aziraphale tasted so _good_ , like home, like sunshine. He was making the sweetest, softest little sounds and pulling Crowley more tightly against him by the hips and _oh god_ , the thick warmth of Aziraphale’s body felt so bloody good where they were joined, pressed together from belly to knees. Crowley boldy wedged one of his thighs between Aziraphale’s and was rewarded with a desperate, high pitched moan and a sharp bite to his lower lip as his leg pressed into the other man’s crotch. 

“Jesus angel, holy fuck.” Crowley gasped as he pulled away reluctantly. He could easily keep going, but he also needed to ask where this was headed. Because if they continued on their current track, it was almost certain that Crowley would be getting Aziraphale naked as quickly as possible. Snaking his eager hands under the man’s clothing to feel that soft skin. Taking apart Aziraphale's bow tie with as much immediacy as possible.

Is this… do you want this…” he murmured roughly against Aziraphale’s lips.

“ _God yes_ ,” Aziraphale replied breathlessly. “Only...I… _uhhhhhh_!” whatever he’d been about to say was swiftly cut off by a moan as Crowley began enthusiastically exploring the side of Aziraphale’s neck with his mouth.

“Mmmm… Yeah angel..what is it?” Crowley asked between sloppy, open mouthed kisses against Aziraphale’s throat. Sweet Satan, the man’s skin tasted like vanilla. How was that even possible? Aziraphale was gasping and gripping Crowley by the hips again, pulling him closer, and Crowley thought perhaps he’d black out with how swiftly all the blood in his body was rushing southward. He could feel the physical effects of Aziraphale’s arousal pressed against his belly, and the sensation was making him go a bit wild on the inside.

“If I’m to keep the high ground…” Aziraphale, god bless him, was trying his best to speak coherently. “If I’m to..." he paused again and gasped softly, a sound that Crowley could feel against his lips and tongue. _"Dear lord_ Crowley, your mouth, _god_ it’s... _so good_.” the man's voice sounded urgent with need and weak with arousal, and Crowley could barely stand it. 

He smiled against the bob of Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple as he worked his way around to the other side of the man’s neck and spent some time exploring the skin there with his tongue. Aziraphale let out a surprised sounding gasp. “You were saying,” Crowley mumbled. 

“It’s quite difficult to concentrate, what with you kissing my neck like this my dear,” Aziraphale’s words were cautionary, but his voice was so utterly wrecked. The sound of it, breathless and rough, drove Crowley half mad, made him want to take Aziraphale apart, piece by piece to see what other sweet, awkward things he could make the man blurt out in that voice.

“As I was saying,” Aziraphale continued through a low moan that made Crowley _ache ._ “If I’m to keep the high ground in this situation, it would help if.. If… I could tell the truth when I say we’ve never slept together.” 

Crowley stopped mid suckle and pulled back to look at him, comprehension slowly dawning across his lust-fogged brain. “Oh…” he said softly, the truth of it hitting him. “Ohhhh. Oh _shit._ ” He pulled further out of Aziraphale’s embrace, feeling himself coming down a little from the intense joy of finally getting his mouth on Aziraphale's skin.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t be denied that he understood exactly what Aziraphale was saying. In a high profile divorce like this, it was best to give Gabriel the least ammunition possible before they knew how the man would react. Aziraphale could only lose from shagging Crowley right now in this hotel room, no matter how badly they both wanted to. “Oh fuck angel, why did you have to say that? Now I’m forced to agree with you.”

Aziraphale groaned softly in frustration. “I know darling. I know. And I’m ever so sorry. I shouldn’t have started kissing you-”

“Don’t you _ever_ again apologize for kissing me angel.” Crowley said intently. “Time snogging you is always time well spent.” 

Aziraphale smiled his gorgeous sunshine smile, in response and Crowley melted under its warmth and kissed him softly on the forehead. “I understand,” he said reluctantly. “You’re right. If he asks you if you’ve had sex with me, it would be for the best if you could say no and mean it. Although, if that kiss ever gets used against us as evidence, I’m sure we’ll end up in dire straits.” 

Aziraphale got a wicked look in his eyes. “Then lets pray to god that divorce courts don’t use masturbatory fantasies as proof of marital infidelity, otherwise, I’d be in deep trouble.”

Crowley’s knees buckled slightly and he gripped Aziraphale by the shoulders, “Angel, please, have mercy on me. I’m only human. If you keep talking like that, I’ll have no choice but to undress you...as swiftly as possible”

Aziraphale collapsed against him with a sigh and they stood there, embracing for a while. Soon enough though, Crowley could feel the hug turn sensual in a way that held the promise of more. Aziraphale’s lips made a soft pathway across Crowley’s jaw, to the corner of his mouth, and then they started kissing again. T

kiss was slow and gentle, but swiftly increased in enthusiasm, until Crowley pulled himself back again, gasping. He stepped away from Aziraphale with a wry grin, holding him at arm's length. “I should go, he said. “I literally can’t be alone with you much longer or I’ll make liars of the both of us.” He tactfully didn’t mention that he had a throbbing erection pressing against the confines of his tight trousers, nor did he bring up the fact that he’d felt Aziraphale being deliciously affected in exactly the same way. It probably wouldn’t make matters easier.

Aziraphale nodded, looking sad and happy at the same time, as well as flushed and slightly debauched. His eyes were flashing, his cheeks were pink, his mouth wet and open and just a little bruised from being kissed soundly and properly. “I’ll look into getting this handled as quickly as possible,” he said. “I am almost certain that Gabriel will want a quick and painless divorce. He can’t risk it getting messy or public. And the offer still stands for me to put you and Beez up here in your own rooms. It’s the least I can do after putting your job at risk.”

“Thanks so much for the offer. I think though, that we’ll book ourselves into a different place. I don’t trust myself to even be in the same hotel with you,” Crowley replied, grinning at Aziraphale with what was probably the world’s dopiest smile on his face.

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale sighed and ducked his head in assent, while looking wickedly up at Crowley through thick, dark blond lashes. Crowley was forced to double down on his commitment not to grab Aziraphlae and snog him silly again.

Knowing that he didn’t trust himself to stay any longer, he slowly walked over to the door, feeling as if he had cinder blocks tied to both his ankles. He didn’t know quite where he was finding the strength to leave this hotel room, a room in which his amazing new boyfriend was standing between not just one, but _two_ available beds, looking vulnerable and desperately, utterly kissable. _Boyfriend_. The term sounded so delightful to him. He couldn’t wait to use it out loud. 

“I’ll be here if you need me for anything,” Crowley said, and he’d never meant the words more in his entire life. “If you need help, or support, or a ride somewhere, or someone to come with you back to Gabriel’s to get your things. All you have to do is ask.” He’d opened the door and was halfway through it, aching with the urge to run back into the room and enfold Aziraphale in his arms again. 

Aziraphale was nodding, smiling his happy-sad smile, taking small steps toward Crowley, but obviously holding himself back from getting too close. It was adorable, and Crowley watched him through the narrowing crack of the closing door until it clicked shut between them.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next few chapters, I did try to do some research into NY State separation and divorce procedures, but please, lets just ice over it if I didn't get it quite right. I'm a lazy writer and can't be bothered to do in depth research. I know it isn't advisable in general to date until you get a separation, especially in highly acrimonious situations such as Az and Gabe.

It only took about two minutes after Crowley left for Aziraphale to bitterly regret his statement about them waiting to sleep together. Yes, it made sense. Gabriel didn’t even know he’d been found out yet, wouldn’t know until late morning tomorrow at the earliest. Aziraphale needed to talk to him, about the divorce, about legal actions and attorneys, about all of it. It would probably take at minimum a few months for the whole process to go through, and Aziraphale had  _ no intentions _ to wait that long before finally getting to be with Crowley. He did however, need to meet with Gabriel, talk to him, assess his state of mind. 

He was fairly certain the man wouldn’t be able to threaten him with anything. Aziraphale clearly had the high ground, and he could keep it by delaying his ultimate union with Crowley for a few weeks. Even though it hurt with a deep pang inside his heart, he could stay away from the other man for a while longer. 

He unpacked his bag, putting his clothes away and setting his toothbrush and bar of soap from home in the bathroom. Settling into his temporary abode, he realized just how spoiled he’d become when he was so disappointed at the sub par accomodations at the hotel. But he really had no excuse to upgrade to something grander. This was close his-  _ Gabriel’s _ house (he corrected himself swiftly) and it was affordable, safe and clean. That was all he could ask for. 

It would take some adjustments to get used to cooking his own meals, cleaning his own house. He hadn’t touched a vacuum or a dish sponge in three years, and he hated that. 

The full extent of the effects of his marriage to Gabriel on his life would probably take some time to make themselves known. And Gabriel couldn’t be blamed for this entire mess. Not by a long shot. It was Aziraphale who had to learn how to better speak his truth. Aziraphale who had to reach for the things  _ he _ wanted. He had to work on empowering himself to make his life the way he wanted it. 

Despite the fact that his thoughts should have been centered on self improvement, or on the details of how to go about starting the process of getting a divorce, he couldn’t help but linger on the fresh memories of kissing Crowley. How the man’s soft lips and agile tongue had lit Aziraphale’s body up like a firecracker. How the taste of him, the smell of his skin, the feel of Crowley’s mouth on his neck, the solid, warm,  _ rightness _ of Crowley’s body pressed against his own had seemed to patch up something broken and tattered inside his heart. 

After perhaps a decade in a failing marriage, that brief, dizzying few minutes spent in Crowley’s arms had healed Aziraphale in a way he couldn’t even quite articulate. Their short time being intimate, confessing their feelings, touching and kissing was like a warm blanket draped over his shoulders on a cold winter day, or a long drink of water when he was parched. He felt frustration, yes, over not having more of Crowley, but instead of that ache becoming overly painful, it felt like the exciting promise of something new. 

He hadn’t felt this alive in a long time. He hadn’t felt like he had options, new paths to pursue, opportunities to grow, like he now felt were available to him. It had been twenty years that he’d been giving away his power, and he had no intention of doing it ever again. 

The knowledge that Crowley loved him, desired him, wanted to be with him, made Aziraphale feel momentarily invincible. As if he could do anything because Crowley believed in him. Consciously, he knew that this line of thinking wasn’t all that healthy. It was  _ Aziraphale’s  _ job and Aziraphale’s job alone to make sure he steered the prow of his life toward better, more prosperous waters. Still, he couldn’t help but indulge in lovely fantasies of Crowley holding his hand, kissing him, (dear lord) making love to him and being by his side and how that would bolster his mood and his resolve to build a better life for them both. 

He reestablished his decision not to call Crowley, not to tell the man to come back  _ now _ and make passionate love to him. It wouldn’t be prudent or helpful at a time like this. Instead, he went down to the hotel’s small business center and did some research on divorce proceedings, his rights and the local laws, as well as divorces where both parties were from different countries. He wanted to be as prepared as possible for his inevitable confrontation with Gabriel. 

There was a lot of information regarding keeping one’s citizenship after divorce from a US citizen, but this didn’t matter to Aziraphale, for he fully intended to return home to London as soon as possible. Also, it was a childless marriage, so all of the cautionary advice regarding that subject wasn’t applicable to his situation. Furthermore, the splitting of assets didn’t concern him much either. He didn’t want Gabriel’s money. He had his own money from a slow-growing but highly successful business in the purchase, trade and restoration of old books, some of which cost upwards of several thousand dollars a volume. Aziraphale had, over the course of his life, accumulated a few million pounds in extremely rare first editions. He and Sandalphon had carefully invested this money, and so Aziraphale was in no need of any financial support from Gabriel. He wasn’t sure that Gabriel was even aware of this fact. The prat hadn’t asked Aziraphale about his book business in years. But it ensured that Aziraphale was financially stable.

He also had no desire to defame his husband. No desire to drag the man’s name through the mud. He only wished to keep Gabriel’s wrath from harming Crowley and to be allowed to return home and to never have to see Gabriel again. 

He knew Gabriel rather well, and the man would do virtually anything to maintain his image and keep his career thriving. Aziraphale was happy to let him be, and walk away with a minimum of drama. But that didn’t mean Gabriel would give up so easily. Aziraphale was unsure how he’d react to the news of Aziraphale leaving, but the man could be capable of virtually anything. Begging, pleading, yelling, threatening… possibly even violence? He could also wish Aziraphale good riddance and react with relief… Aziraphale wouldn’t know until they spoke, and they wouldn’t speak until tomorrow. 

He used the hotel’s printer to print out several pages of legal information and the names of some highly reviewed divorce attorneys and headed back to his room, striving and failing to keep images of Crowley’s golden eyes and sly smile out of his head. 

A sudden thought came to him. It wouldn’t be too dangerous to go out to dinner with Crowley, if he invited Beez along would it? The three of them could use the time to plan next steps. Aziraphale still didn’t know what Crowley’s plans were for returning to London, for continuing their relationship, and he wanted to touch base with him and Beez about what to do next. Crowley said he’d resign immediately, and Aziraphale itched to talk to him about that, to make sure he was doing alright and find out what his backup plans were, and if there was anything at all Aziraphale could do to help. 

The three of them, Crowley, Beez and Aziraphale had only a precious few hours between now and tomorrow morning before Gabriel became aware that his marriage was over. It would be a perfect time to meet them, see how the both of them were doing, and (of course) see Crowley again, but with the benefit of a well loved chaperone in the form of his sibling. Aziraphale wanted to see Beez again too, to make sure they were doing OK, to ask what they planned on doing next as well.

Grinning softly to himself, he picked up his phone and texted Crowley

**_Would you and Beez like to meet me for dinner tonight? The Italian place maybe, in Athena? We can talk next steps._ **

The response came back in record time

**_Sounds lovely. What time should we meet you there? I’ve rented a car and we’ve packed our bags. Plan on getting a hotel in town tonight._ **

Aziraphale asked to meet the siblings at 7pm at the italian restaurant and he could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of seeing them again so soon. He felt alone and lonely in his beige, dull hotel room, his future, full of possibilities, both positive and negative, looming over the evening like an unsettling shadow. 

He quickly jumped in the shower, dressed himself and called an Uber to convey him to the restaurant. He arrived first, which made sense as he was a quarter of an hour early, and so he secured them a table near the door, waiting nervously, toying with his napkin and letting his eyes jump to the entrance every time he heard the door open.


	20. Chapter 20

Crowley could barely contain his excitement at the opportunity to see Aziraphale again so soon. Beez had relentlessly teased him all afternoon when he’d told them what had transpired in Aziraphale’s hotel room, of the things he and Aziraphale had said to one another. 

Some choice phrases from his irreverent sibling since then had included:

_ Wow, so you must have the biggest case of blue balls ever, am I right? _

_ Can I be the ring bearer at your wedding? _

_ I knew you didn’t have the guts to throw him down and take him in a gentlemanly fashion. Are you even bisexual? _

That last one had been met with a sharp glare a few choice expletives. Crowley however was too incandescently happy to be truly put out, and on top of that, he could tell that Beez was happy too. They’d been wearing a shit eating grin ever since he’d told them about the kiss and the love confessions a few hours ago. They just enjoyed ribbing him. Beez had also started relentlessly referring to themself as Aziraphale’s ‘sibling-in-law’, and Crowley had caught them humming a happy tune to themself when they thought he wasn’t listening. 

As for Crowley, he was giddy. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy. Having to delay sleeping with Aziraphale was a small price to pay when he could sense the promise of a long happy relationship with the sweet, soft man he loved stretching into the distant future. 

The text coming in, asking if he and Beez wanted to join Aziraphale for dinner made Crowley feel as if he were floating several feet above the ground. More good natured mocking from Beez ensued, until Crowley had insisted that they shut their mouth, or he’d dump them in Gabriel’s pool and drive off without them. 

The two of them had packed hurriedly, which hadn’t been much of a problem, being that Beez had only one backpack and Crowley hadn’t accumulated many things during his stay. The flat above the garage had come fully furnished and Crowley hadn’t bothered buying more than a few things for himself (oven mitts, a toothbrush holder, a small bathroom rug). All of these could easily be left behind. 

The plants however were another story. It tore at Crowley’s heart to walk through the greenhouse one last time. The plants felt like his children, and he knew them all intimately and well. Knew how much food they needed, how much sunlight. He knew how finicky some of them could be, and all their little ins and outs. They were dear friends and he was walking away and abandoning them. This made him all the angrier at Gabriel for having the audacity to hire him and then to make such a spectacular mess of his home life, necessitating Crowley having to leave his darling babies behind. 

He walked through the greenhouse, touching vines here, fondling new blossoms there, running reverent fingers over the wide, leathery leaves and having a good cry. Then he shut the greenhouse door for the last time and posted the list of care and feeding instructions he’d developed over the last two years, along with the names of new, qualified horticulturists he’d found online on the door with a few pieces of scotch tape. 

He wrote out a letter of resignation and emailed it to Gabriel, keeping it simple. Saying that he’d found the position untenable and that he wished Gabriel the best of luck finding a replacement. He requested that Gabriel Venmo him his final pay, stating that he had no idea where he’d end up next. He was careful to keep the tone of the email friendly and polite. No need to set the man off. It hadn’t been an easy task though, and several times he’d had to delete lines after writing things like ‘ _ I have no idea how you could have treated your husband with such utterly blatant disregard, you self centered twat.’  _

Finally, by the time six o’clock rolled around, he and Beez had their bags packed and were ready to uber to the car rental place in town. Crowley rented an affordable compact car to use for the next few weeks while he and Beez figured out what was to happen next. He didn’t want to head back to London just yet. Not if it meant leaving Aziraphale here to work on the details of his divorce by himself. He could find work in Athena, or Poughkeepsie if he needed to, waiting tables, or perhaps managing at a garden center. Beez could find temporary work as a barista or a server, though, considering their generally prickly attitude and propensity for sass talk, it might be best if they stayed out of the serving business. 

The siblings pulled up to the restaurant ten minutes late, and Crowley was already a nervous mess. He’d just seen Aziraphale perhaps five hours prior, and yet it felt like they’d been apart for weeks. He opened the door of the restaurant and swiftly looked around for Aziraphale before seeing that familiar flash of white blond curls among the dinner crowd. Aziraphale had secured them a table near the door, and now he rose from his chair, looking so expectant and vulnerable, a cautious smile on his face. Crowley smiled broadly and immediately walked over to him and into his waiting arms. 

“Is it silly that I’ve missed you?” he asked, his face buried in Aziraphale’s warm, sweet smelling neck. 

“Not at all my darling. I’ve missed you too,” Aziraphale replied, his voice a little gruff with emotion. 

“Hey,” Beez said, waiting for the embracing couple to notice them. 

“Beez dear! Come give us a hug!” Aziraphale released Crowley and turned to wrap his arms around Beez, nearly enveloping their small body completely in a warm bear hug. 

After their hellos, the trio settled around the table and ordered drinks, a soda for Beez and just water for Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t want to drink alcohol at the moment, not when the man he loved desperately but couldn’t actually be with yet was sitting across from him. As an extra deterrent, the seating arrangements were distant, with he and Beez on one side of the small, square table and Aziraphale on the other. It would have to be something he got accustomed to. Strange how staying away from Aziraphale for the past two years of his employment had felt tough but manageable, and how spending a mere ten minutes in Aziraphale’s arms made every minute they’d been apart since feel like an uncomfortable eternity. 

They chatted warmly about the food for a few minutes, deciding on what to order and informing the server of their choices. After that, Aziraphale broached the subject of what to do next.

“I’m so sorry that all this mess resulted in you losing your job and your home,” he said, looking back and forth between Crowley and Beez with a sad gleam in his eyes. 

“Don’t waste any time feeling bad about that,” Crowley replied. I’ll miss the greenhouse, but that’s all I’ll miss. I already told you angel, I couldn’t stand staying on after you left.”

“Yeah,” agreed Beez. “The thought of being there when Gabriel got back did  _ not _ sound like fun.” 

“Regardless, it was a large change, brought about by my actions-”

“Gabriel’s actions,” Crowley corrected him gently. “You did nothing but find out about his cheating. That’s all.”

“Very well, Gabriel’s actions. Thank you my dear for being so understanding.” Aziraphale took a moment to center himself, clearly about to say more. “Regardless, I wanted to meet with both of you to decide what to do next. Beez dear, by now, I’m sure your brother has told you that he and I would like to be… involved?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve had to hear him gushing about you for a solid week.” Beez remarked, earning themself a disbelieving glare from Crowley.

“Ah, well,.. That’s…” Aziraphale, suddenly flustered, had turned a lovely shade of pink. It made Crowley want to kiss him… again. “That’s nice to hear,” he finished, flicking his eyes up at Crowley’s face bashfully.

“What Beez was  _ trying _ to say,” Crowley said, still glaring at his sibling, “is that yes, they’re aware that we want to be together.”

“Good,” replied Aziraphale with a warm smile. “My next questions would be about what you and Beez’s plans are for the next month or so. I think that’s as long as it will take to have a lawyer draw up a separation agreement and for me to get Gabriel to sign it. Will you go back to London? I could always meet you there…”

“I’m not leaving you,” Crowley said bluntly, surprising himself at the fervent bloom of protectiveness he felt towards Aziraphale in that moment. “I’ll stay here and wait until you and I can fly back together. Beez?” he turned and looked at his sibling. “You’re a free agent. You can stay with me, or you can head home. It’s up to you.”

Beez spoke without hesitation, “I’m staying here with you,” they said, a determined, steely look making its way across their pale face. “If I’m to be Aziraphale’s new sibling-in-law, then I think I should stay and help you support him.” A smile peeked through the look of serious dedication and they winked at Aziraphale.

“Oh, that’s just lovely!” Aziraphale beamed, blessedly ignoring Beez’s six hundredth marriage joke of the day (and the first one he’d been present for). “I would never ask the two of you to stay here to help me. I know that you both have plans for heading back home.”

“Angel,” Crowley reached across the table and placed his hand over Aziraphale’s, “my plans right now are all to do with how to support you getting a divorce from that arsehole. We’ll find temporary work and a place to stay until that’s put in motion.”

“Yeah,” echoed Beez. “You’re family now, and I don’t want to leave you either.”

This caused Aziraphale’s eyes to well up with tears as he squeezed Cowley’s hand in his. “Thank you both so much,” he murmured with a sniffle. “I can't say how much hearing that means to me.”

The server came back then with their salads and Crowley reluctantly let go of Aziraphale’s hand to give the woman room to set the plates down. They started eating while joking, laughing and hashing out some details on what would happen over the next month. 

“I can’t be with you until I straighten a few things out with Gabriel,” Aziraphale said around a bite of linguini and clam sauce. “But I’d love to spend more time with the both of you regardless.”

“Yeah,” Beez piped up, spearing a bite of lasagna with their fork. “Crowley said I need to be his chaperone, or he’ll try to jump you. I’d be honored to serve in that capacity.”

Crowley had given up on yelling at Beez for their salacious comments an hour ago. It was an exhausting job, and to be fair, his sibling wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true. 

“They’re right you know,” he added, giving Aziraphale a heated look over the rim of his water glass. “I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.” 

Aziraphale blushed a deep shade of pink and grinned back at him with shining eyes and Crowley felt his heart squeeze painfully with all the love inside it. 

“Ugh. Get a room!” Beez moaned, throwing their hands up in the air. They seemed fine with poking fun at Crowley for lustful thoughts about Aziraphale, but childishly intolerant when he himself was the source of the comments. “Or.. rather…  _ don’t get a room _ .” they chuckled like the evil little demon they were and Crowley bumped shoulders with them, sticking his tongue out. 

The rest of the dinner was spent fully enjoying each other’s company. Beez regaled them with stories from rehab and some less grim tales of life as a junkie (specifically about the time they’d tried stealing a meter maid’s ticket book on a dare and only escaping detection by scrambling over a garden wall). Crowley and Aziraphale talked about their differing upbringings in very different London suburbs. Crowley could feel Beez staring at him when he omitted talking about specific aspects of his younger days (the sex work in particular). He ignored them. They had done enough meddling in his burgeoning relationship with Aziraphale. He’d talk about his past when and where he wanted to. Luckily, Beez still seemed adequately chastized from outing Crowley just a couple of days ago and so they kept their mouth shut. 

The hours flew by, and soon it was nearing closing time for the restaurant. They’d paid the bill forty five minutes prior and the wait staff were starting to give them significant looks. Aziraphale had just finished a hilarious account of how he’d once gotten a nosy customer out of his shop by pretending to vomit loudly into the sink in his back room. The man, who simply would  _ not _ take a hint that Aziraphale wanted him to leave, had run for the hills upon Aziraphale’s dramatic rendition of someone sicking up very loudly. After the laughter died down, he looked around at the completely empty restaurant and suggested that it might be time to go. 

Crowley sighed and nodded his agreement and the three of them rose and got their coats on before heading out to the parking lot. Beez tactfully (for once) went to wait in the rental car, giving Aziraphale and Crowley some privacy to say goodbye. 

They walked a little ways from the back of the car and Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand and interlaced their fingers. Crowley looked down at their joined hands and then back up into Aziraphale’s soft eyes. “I remember that day we went to Saffron,” he said, running his thumb gently back and forth over Aziraphale’s thumb as he spoke. “I wanted to hold your hand so badly. I wanted so badly for it to be a real date.”

“You were quiet on the way home,” Aziraphale squeezed his hand, using the connection to pull him a little closer. “I thought for sure I’d done something wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Crowley smiled at him, leaned in for a chaste kiss then pulled away quickly before either of them were tempted to deepen it. “I was just sad and in my head about not getting to be with you.” 

“And look, here we are again, being kept apart,” Aziraphale added, gazing at Crowley with his eyes full of longing and just a little sadness. 

“No angel,” Crowley corrected him gently. “This isn’t like that at all. Not now that I know how you feel. Not now that I know what it’s like to kiss you. Knowing that you’ll be there, at the end of all this so we can finally be together makes me so happy.” He let a beaming smile bloom across his face, to illustrate how he felt and saw an answering smile break over Aziraphale’s like the rising sun. 

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice soft and careful. He stepped in closer still and wrapped his arms around Crowley’s neck and pressed his cheek to Crowley’s cheek. “I can’t wait.”

“Neither can I love, neither can I,” Crowley said, feeling a lump rising in his throat. He luxuriated in the feel of Aziraphale’s arms around him for just a moment longer, then pulled away. “Come on,” he said pulling gently on Aziraphale’s hand, “We’ll give you a ride back to your hotel.”

Aziraphale smiled and nodded, letting Crowley lead him by the hand towards the car, where Beez had their eyes glued to their smartphone, being a very bad chaperone indeed.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, there's a bit of abusive language in this chapter. Heads up to anyone who might not want to deal with that right now. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the fantastic comments! Ya'll are the best!<3

Aziraphale woke early the next day, made himself a cup of horrid hotel coffee, had a shower and got dressed, all as if he were preparing for battle, because he knew he would be later that day. The chances of Gabriel somehow  _ not  _ rushing back to the house to try and save his scam of a marriage were slim. Aziraphale knew Gabriel very well after two decades of marriage, and he knew the man, much like Aziraphale’s own parents (let a future therapist deconstruct  _ that  _ little gem) hated to lose out on an investment. And that’s precisely what Gabriel saw Aziraphale as, an  _ investment. _

Fedex usually delivered priority overnight packages by half past ten (or possibly by noon) the next day, and so Aziraphale wanted to be ready for an incoming call. Gabriel probably wouldn’t text. He wouldn’t want a record of their conversation hanging around for some divorce lawyer to see it. Wouldn’t admit to cheating in print. 

At three minutes to one, his mobile buzzed and Gabriel’s name came up on the screen. Aziraphale watched it ring with a rising feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He almost didn’t answer, but because he knew Gabriel would only call back again and again, he picked up the mobile and hit the green answer icon.

“Hello Gabriel,” he said politely, calmly.

“Babe…” Gabriel began

“ _ Don’t  _ call me that,” Aziraphale snapped back. He couldn’t help it. How dare the man try to resort to pet names to plead his case. 

“Fine. Aziraphale, I got your package. Look, b-” he caught and corrected himself quickly, “look. I need to talk to you.”

“We’re talking now,” Aziraphale pointed out tersely. 

“Yeah, but I need to  _ be there.  _ I need to  _ see you. _ ”

“Yes, that will be necessary if we’re to discuss the terms of our divorce.”

“Babe, I don’t want a divorce... Shit. Sorry.” He was being irritatingly soft and caring and Aziraphale hated every second of it.

“Well, I  _ do _ Gabriel. You’ve been unfaithful. I don’t know how many times. That’s plenty enough for the basis of a request for a permanent separation.”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Gabriel, the prat, had the absolute gall to try and downplay the texts and the picture.

“Gabriel, please don’t treat me as if I were an idiot. You received a photo of a young man’s  _ penis _ and a passel of text messages about meeting him for dinner. If it’s  _ not what it looks like _ , then I’d be very interested in what  _ exactly _ you think it  _ was. _ ” Aziraphale was in no mood for Gabriel’s manipulation, nor his placation. He was done with being pulled about like a marionette for the man’s amusement and convenience. 

“Alright, I can see you’re upset,” Gabriel’s voice had gone back to being soft and reassuring, but Aziraphale wasn’t buying it for a second. “I’ll just get Crowley to come pick me up early and we can talk later today.”

“That sounds like a good idea, only Crowley has resigned, so he won’t be available to pick you up after all.” Aziraphale should have waited for Gabriel to figure this fact out on his own, but he also didn’t want to delay their conversation for longer than was necessary, and he could just see Gabriel wasting valuable hours trying to track Crowley down. 

“Resigned?! What the fuck are you talking about?”  _ Ahh _ , cracks were appearing in Gabriel’s oh-so-caring facade and Aziraphale felt the cold resolve inside his gut to escape this man at all costs solidify into rock solid determination.

“Gabriel, you’ll need to find your way home on your own. Call a taxi, catch an uber. Do what you have to do. Just let me know when you’re back and I’ll come over to talk and collect some more of my things.”

“ _ Babe _ , come on, please don’t be-”

“ _ Don’t call me that! _ ” Aziraphale yelled into the phone. He couldn’t help himself. How could he have not seen how utterly slimy and disingenuous Gabriel could be? How could he have been so blind to the fact that his husband was philandering, calculating,  _ liar _ ?

“I’ll await your text telling me you’re home,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could in the wake of his flash of temper. “No need to call,” he added and then hung up. 

It had felt good to end the call abruptly. It had felt  _ really _ good to yell at Gabriel, something he’d done very rarely indeed over the course of their marriage. He knew that Gabriel would be cooking up a plan to try and get him back the entire ride home, but he didn’t care. There was nothing his soon to be ex husband could say or do that would get him to stay in the marriage. Promises to be faithful, promises to go away together, threats, tears, all would be useless. Nothing Gabriel said could ever be trusted again, and on top of that, the man would still be after Aziraphale about his weight, would still snap at Aziraphale for his antiquated words and roll his eyes over Aziraphale’s old fashioned clothing. 

Aziraphale felt triumphant over the way he’d handled the phone call, but that pretty shortly wore off, and he felt tendrils of anxiety and fear snaking their way into his mind. He honestly had no clue what Gabriel was capable of when backed into a corner. 

He immediately grabbed his mobile and called Crowley.

Crowley picked up after only two rings “Angel?” he said, voice soft and worried. A complete about face from the conversation with Gabriel seconds prior. 

“Hello Crowley, dear. Gabriel called. He’s on his way back. I’m sorry, but I told him you resigned. He was expecting you to pick him up, and I didn’t want him wasting time trying to find you.”

“Are you OK? Do you need me to come over? I mean,  _ us _ . Beez and I can be there in twenty minutes.”

Aziraphale smiled to himself at Crowley’s protective words. “No my dear, that won’t be necessary. I’m fine. A little shaken up from talking to him again, but I made it quite clear that we are divorcing and that I will meet him at the house to pick up some things and have a talk. If you wouldn’t mind, I  _ would _ appreciate it if you and Beez would come with me, as witnesses. I doubt he’ll do anything violent, but I want you there to hear the words that come out of his lying mouth.”

“Absolutely angel. We’d be honored. When’s he due in?”

“I’ve honestly no clue, but I’m assuming sometime before nightfall. Perhaps in three or four hours?” I’ll call you when he texts me and you can come pick me up?”

“Of course. And let me know if there’s anything you need in the meantime. A shoulder to lean on. A pair of lips to kiss… anything at all.” 

Aziraphale grinned at Crowley’s flirtatious joke. “Don’t tempt me,” he said through a warm smile.

“Call me, angel. I’ll be waiting. We both will,” Crowley’s voice was oh so warm and strong and surging with affection and Aziraphale felt butterfly wings flutter in the pit of his stomach at the sound of it. 

“Yes, love. I will.” 

The rest of the afternoon dragged by. Aziraphale tried to distract himself with reading, but his eyes wouldn’t focus on the words, kept slipping across the page without him seeing them. He went over the printouts of legal information and divorce law again and again, paced about the room, tried to watch television and failed, turning it off when the parade of daytime soap operas, reality tv shows and mindless info-mercials made his impatience worse rather than being a distraction. 

His mobile phone buzzed at half past four, and he jumped at the sound of it. Picking it up, he could see the display readout of Gabriel’s text without having to open it. One word. 

**_Home_ **

Aziraphale took a deep breath and texted back

**_I’ll be over within the hour_ **

He then called Crowley and asked if he and Beez would head over to pick him up. The siblings got there in record time, and soon, all three of them were pulling into the circular drive at Gabriel’s house. Aziraphale saw Crowley’s regretful look at the greenhouse and placed a soft hand to the red haired man’s arm. 

“Oh Crowley. Your lovely plants. I hadn’t realized. I’m so sorry.”

“S’OK angel,” Crowley replied, placing his hand over Aziraphale’s and giving it a quick squeeze. “They weren’t mine to begin with.”

“Yes they were. They may belong to Gabriel, but I’m sure it’s you they love,” Aziraphale said gently. 

“Stop being so sweet angel,” Crowley mumbled. “Don’t want to snog you in front of this arsehole’s house.” 

Aziraphale relented with a small smile. He was all nerves inside, but it helped to have Crowley and Beez there. They may not have shared much, outside of a love of the color black, but the siblings both radiated a sort of relentless, frank, rationalness that was calming to Aziraphale. 

The three of them got out of the car and walked up to the house, as if approaching the cave of a fire breathing dragon, cautiously and with trepidation. Aziraphale, with Crowley and Beez standing behind him, knocked at the side door and waited for Gabriel to appear. He did, looking tired and more disheveled than usual, frowning when he saw that Aziraphale had company.

“Why are these two here?” he asked with a glower as he opened the door. 

“For moral support, and as witnesses so that we can make sure to be civil to one another,” Aziraphale replied, feeling proud that his voice didn’t shake with all the nerves knocking about inside him. “If they can’t come in then neither shall I.”

“Fine, whatever,” Gabriel relented quickly and opened the door for the three to enter. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale began when they were all standing, quite awkwardly in the kitchen, (except for Beez who was leaning against a set of shelves looking at their nails in a distracted way, as if on line for the cinema). “I thought it would be best if we got clear on a few things. I’d like a divorce on the grounds of marital infidelity.”

“Aziraphale, come on. It was a one time thing, it’ll never happen again.”

“That’s highly doubtful,” replied Aziraphale. “I’m almost certain this wasn’t an isolated incident. It makes no sense that you've been so dissatisfied with me for a decade now and that you  _ wouldn’t  _ have been stepping out with others before our charming photographer from yesterday. And besides,” he added with a sniff, “your little friend was likely a wee toddler when you first started cheating on me. He can’t have been the first.” 

Beez snorted from their position in the corner, and Gariel shot them a sharp look. 

“Hey Aziraphale,” he spoke, smoothly side stepping the question about his infidelity and redirecting the conversation. “We can work something out. We can open up the marriage. I’ll do what I like and you can too, and this way, my career won’t suffer and you can have someone on the side as well.” 

Aziraphale swallowed down a wave of revulsion at the idea of living in a loveless sham of a marriage while they both dated others. Open relationships worked best when everyone wanted them and enjoyed them, not as a way to scam the public in order to keep one partner’s insane ego driven career afloat. “No, that wouldn’t work out at all,” He said tersely. “I don’t want an open marriage. I don’t want  _ any _ marriage that involves you. I think it’s for the best if we separate and divorce as soon as possible.”

“If it’s about money…”

“Gabriel, it’s not about money. I have my own money. I don’t want a penny of yours. I simply don’t want to be your husband any longer.”

He hated the way barely contained relief washed across Gabriel’s features. Apparently, a fear of losing half of his assets to a vindictive ex husband had been high on the list of Gabriel’s worries. Of course it was. The man was relentlessly materialistic. “I want my freedom. And I want to move back to London. That’s all,” he finished.

“But babe-” Gabriel flinched when he saw Aziraphale’s sharp look of recrimination at the reappearance of his old pet name. “ _ Aziraphale, _ ” he corrected with a glare, “my entire empire is built around me being in a happy marriage. How exactly am I supposed to uphold that image if we’re divorced?”

The truth was coming out now. The truth that this hadn’t been about Gabriel loving Aziraphale in a long time. It was always about Gabriel and his precious career. “That’s not my problem, Gabriel.” Aziraphale said firmly, standing his ground.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Gabriel’s face was getting dark with anger and his hands were clenching into fists at his sides. Aziraphale felt, rather than saw Crowley step up closer, hovering protectively just over his right shoulder. Beez stopped their nonchalant lean and pulled out their cell phone.

“You want to drag my name through the mud is that it?” Gabriel asked through gritted teeth. “You want to get back at me for the infidelity by ruining my career? I should have known better than to expect you to take the high road.” 

“ _ What a wanker,” _ Beez’s statement was mumbled, sotto voce, but Gabriel apparently heard it, because his head snapped around in Beez’s direction. 

“You need to shut up, bitch,” he growled at them. 

Azirpahale felt a flash of anger explode behind his eyes like a burst of light, all heat and impulse, but before he could jump to Beez’s defence, they’d casually opened their mobile with their thumb and clicked a button. A soft beep occurred and Beez smiled. “Keep talking Gabriel,” they said calmly and coldly. “I’m guessing this video will go viral when I upload it to youtube with the title ‘famous spiritual guru goes mental.” 

Gabriel spluttered, seeming on the verge of yelling something back, but then visibly calmed himself. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew the power of the internet and how modern technology could make or break a person’s career with one wrong word or one embarassing video. 

Beez, sensing that the imminent threat was over, tapped their mobile again to cut off the recording and slipped it back into the inner pocket of their jacket. Just as Crowley had slipped his pocket knife back into his jacket earlier that year after defending Aziraphale against a group of cruel, drunk tourists. Aziraphale felt his heart swell with pride and love for his new friend, for his new family he’d found in the form of a pair of tough yet soft siblings who had his back.

“Despite what you’ve assumed about me,” he said, turning back to Gabriel to continue their conversation. “I’m not interested in ruining your career. I won’t make a fuss. I won’t smear your name in the tabloids or go on any television shows. No book deals. No social media posts. I want nothing to do with you moving forward.”

Gabriel appeared to relax a little, but he wasn’t done trying to plead his case. “This’ll ruin me either way, Aziraphale.” He said. “If you leave, everyone will think I’m a fraud, that I couldn’t keep my marriage together. It’ll destroy me.”

“Then perhaps you should have thought of that before you actually ruined your marriage,” Aziraphale replied coldly. 

Gabriel shrugged off Aziraphale’s statement and tried again. “Fine, go back to London, do whatever you want. Just  _ stay married to me _ . I can tell the reporters that you missed home and that we’ll be moving to a long distance thing so we can compromise. That way you’ll have your freedom, and I’ll keep my career. Come on Aziraphale. It could work.” He sounded desperate and pathetic. Aziraphale felt a small twinge of sympathy, but not enough to agree to a false, toxic marriage for a second longer than was strictly necessary.

“That won’t work Gabriel. I’d like to move on with my life. I’d like to have a chance to build my own future. To reconnect with my old friends and take up my bookshop once more. I’d like the freedom to date… to have a relationship that makes me happy. I can’t do that while pretending to be married to you.”

“Oh, and who would date  _ you _ ?” Gabriel, apparently seeing his chance at keeping their separation a secret fly out the window, had decided to fight dirty. “You’re  _ fat,  _ you’re  _ old,  _ you’re hopelessly unfashionable. If you think you’re gonna pull someone better than me, you should start managing your expectations. You never deserved me, and you know it.”

Two days ago, Gabriel’s words would have cut Aziraphale to the bone, but now, they barely scratched the surface of his resolve. Crowley’s love and affection and support, Crowley’s heartfelt dedication had healed something inside Aziraphale, made him strong and resilient somehow. He opened his mouth to reply with something equally insulting when Crowley stepped up next to him and spoke.

“Listen here, you faithless piece of shit,” he said, his voice low and careful and full of a quiet kind of rage. “Aziraphale is ten times the man you are. He’s bloody fantastic, and he deserves far better than a wanker like you could ever offer him.”

Gabriel’s mouth fell open in surprise, and then pressed into a thin, colorless line. His eyes grew flinty and cold. “Oh really?” he said, his voice ringing with fairly contained rage. “I suppose you’ll be first in line to try him out will you?” Aziraphale could hear the disbelief in Gabriel’s voice. The man was still clearly laboring under the delusion that Crowley was straight. “What are you even  _ doing here _ ? You’re our fucking  _ gardener. _ ”

Crowley wordlessly grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and interlaced their fingers, stepping closer to him and glaring boldly back at Gabriel. 

Gabriel’s eyes flicked down to where Crowley’s hand was joined with Aziraphale’s, then back up to Aziraphale’s face. “ _ You’ve been fucking the gardener _ ?!” He was clearly shocked, his face had gone pale and his mouth had dropped open, gaping in surprise. 

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale responded icily. “Crowley is a dear friend, here to support me. Our feelings for each other are none of your business, but I assure you,  _ I _ am not the cheater in this scenario.” 

“Oh, that’s  _ low _ ,” Gabriel had turned back to Crowley. “Winding up your employer’s husband, making him think you’d like to fuck him. Just where do you get off? Accusing  _ me _ of being dishonest, and here  _ you _ are,” Gabriel jabbed a finger in the general direction of Crowley’s chest, “pretending to want to fuck a gay man.”

“He’s not pretending,” this from Beez. “My brother loves cock, and he loves Aziraphale, so, you sort of fucked that up didn’t you?” 

“ _ Beez, _ ” Crowley’s voice was a funny mix of caution along with a gentle sort of pride. 

“You’re  _ gay _ ?” watching the realization dawn over Gabriel’s face was distantly satisfying for Aziraphale. He suppressed an unkind smile. 

“Nope, but I  _ am  _ bisexual,” Crowley remarked with a cheeky grin. “That  _ is _ a thing, in case you’d completely erased it from the list of possibilities.” 

“You fucking  _ sneak _ ,” Gabriel was starting to look a bit appoplectic. He took a half step towards them, and Crowley swiftly stepped in between Aziraphale and his incensed husband. 

“You thought you’d sneak in under my nose and fuck  _ my _ husband? How fucking dare-”

“Look, you wanker,” Beez had piped up again, and Aziraphale felt a spike of fear for their safety as they squared off against Gabriel, pulling themselves up to their full (still very diminutive) height. “My brother hasn’t fucked your husband. He’s better than that. He’s better than  _ you _ , in all the ways that matter. Stop projecting all your own messed up issues onto Crowley. My brother’s not like  _ you _ . He’s kind and protective and loving. He’s  _ honest _ and  _ good _ . You’re just a washed up, narcissistic twat.” 

Gabriel looked like he was about to throttle Beez and so Aziraphale quickly spoke up, desperate to distract him from going after Crowley’s small, fierce sibling. “Look!” He yelled, shaking his hands dismissively in front of him as if to literally clear the air of all the tension and anger that had built up between the four of them. “This isn’t solving anything. Gabriel, it’s over. I’ve told you I don’t want your money and that I have no desire to harm your career. I can have a lawyer draw up a separation agreement and we can start the process of obtaining a divorce.”

He saw Gabriel open his mouth to disagree, to bring up some other hurtful or disruptive thing, and he continued swiftly. “Gabriel,” he forestalled the man’s words with a gentle movement of his hand, “You know it’s for the best. I have pictures of your text messages. Proof that you’ve cheated, and I am agreeing to divorce from you amicably, without causing any trouble, without asking for a penny of your money. All I want is my freedom. You aren’t going to get a better offer than that.”

“I’ll drag you to court,” Gabriel, disappointingly, did not seem to know what was good for him and had decided to double down. “I’ll make this go on for  _ years _ . You’ll be penniless by the time I’m done with you.” 

“Oh will I?” Aziraphale had had just about enough of Gabriel’s nonsense. “And if you decide to go down that road, I’ll spread your dirty laundry out for all the world to see. I don’t think you realize this Gabriel, as self centered as you are, but I’ve been approached by quite a number of interested parties, looking for dirt on our marriage over the years. People would just  _ love  _ the chance to get a glimpse into the private life of a world famous,  _ gay, _ spiritual marriage counselor. I turned them all down, back when I still believed you meant well. Back when I thought you could be  _ faithful.”  _ He spat the word out as if it were poisonous. “But now that I know you’re a cheating bastard, I could just as easily say  _ yes _ to all those hungry reporters and magazine columnists couldn’t I?”

He could see Gabriel’s face go white as the reality of Azirpahale’s threats started to sink in. 

“If you make the  _ monumental mistake  _ of dragging me to court,” Aziraphale continued, his voice soft and threatening, “I’ll tell every single gossip hungry reporter for every single television show and celebrity tabloid  _ all about _ our  _ happy marriage _ . I’ll tell them about all the times you nagged me about my weight, and my appearance, and how you never wanted to shag me. I’ll tell them that you’re never home, that you’re neglectful and cold and that you like sucking barely legal cock on the side. You won’t be able to find work as a fast food fry cook, let alone retain your career.”

Gabriel’s expression went through an impressive succession of changes as Aziraphale spoke, going from shock to outrage to a grim, sullen understanding. Aziraphale could see that he grasped the weight of his words. That he knew that his husband could ruin him in the blink of an eye if he wanted to. 

Gabriel let out all the breath in his lungs in a loud huff and his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Fine. Fine. You’ll get your fucking divorce. Have your lawyers draw up that contract and I’ll sign it.” 

Aziraphale could barely believe his ears. He half expected Gabriel to immediately withdraw his words, to double down again on his threats and insults, but apparently, Aziraphale had made his case quite well, for Gabriel only slunk his way over to a chair at the kitchen table and dropped into it, putting his head in his hands. 

Aziraphale wasn’t quite finished though. “One more thing,” he said, needing to get it all out now, while he had the chance. “As soon as that agreement is signed, I’ll be embarking on a new relationship with Crowley. I haven’t been unfaithful to you, haven’t cheated on you for the entirety of our marriage, but I want to be upfront about what will happen next. I trust you’ll do us the courtesy of refraining from any petty acts of revenge against Crowley. If not, I’m calling the tabloids.” 

“He’ll never make you happy,” Gabriel said, his voice slightly muffled from his face still being buried in his hands. “He’s clearly a fuck boy player, and you’re just his next flavor of the month.” 

Aziraphale felt Crowley tense beside him and he placed a gentle, placating hand to the man’s shoulder. “I don’t care what your opinion of Crowley is Gabriel. Just leave us alone. That’s all I ask.”

“Fine. Whatever,” Gabriel’s childish response was enough for Aziraphale to believe he’d been heard and understood. Gabriel would leave Crowley alone, at least for the time being. It was enough. 

“If you don’t mind, I’ll be going upstairs to pack a few things and then to the library,” Aziraphale replied. “I won’t take long.” And with that, he, with Crowley and Beez in tow, made their way to the second floor. The siblings silently helped Aziraphale grab several sets of shirts, trousers, pants, pyjamas and vests and pack them away in a suitcase. Next, they carried a cardboard box from the garage to the library and packed up a large selection of Aziraphale’s most expensive books to take with them as a precaution. The books had always been Aziraphale’s, and he had every right to take them with him, but he didn’t know how petty Gabriel would be in his absence. So he packed up probably 40 of his rarest first editions to take back with him to the hotel. He could send movers back later for the rest, and he took the precaution of snapping several photos of the books, as evidence of the state they were in when he left them in Gabriel’s care. 

Within forty minutes or so, the three of them were back in Crowley’s rental car, pulling out of the driveway. Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand where it rested on the front seat between them, and lacing their fingers together. “Thank you so much,” he said with feeling. “Thank you to both of you,” he twisted in the front seat to look warmly back at Beez in the back. “This would have been such a nightmare without the two of you there to help support me.” 

“It was sort of a nightmare anyway,” Beez replied with a lopsided grin. “I can’t believe how horrible that man is. How did you stay married to him that long?”

“Honestly my dear, I’m not sure,” Aziraphale replied ruefully, turning back to sit forward again. “I grew complacent, and I naively expected him to get better. He just never did.” 

“He’s a twat,” Beez remarked casually.

“Yes my dear, he  _ is _ ,” Aziraphale nodded his agreement. “Now, shall I treat you both to dinner before you drop me off?”

  
“Oh, angel, we couldn’t accept that, you’ve just-” Crowley began.

“I’d love to!” chirped Beez from the back seat. 

“Good,” Azirpahale replied with a warm smile at Crowley. “Where would you like to eat?”


	22. Chapter 22

Separation agreements could be downloaded and filled out online, but Aziraphale told Crowley that he wanted the whole thing to be airtight and foolproof. He’d kept Crowley up to date on the progress as the days turned into a week, which then turned into two weeks. Aziraphale had hired a reputable divorce lawyer who’d spent quite a bit of time with him drawing up a carefully worded agreement. He’d specified that he wanted none of Gabriel’s financial assets, a request that had made his attorney, Mr. Green’s eyebrows climb up above his thick rimmed glasses in disbelief. He’d also specified that he wanted to separate immediately and move back to London, that he would not be seeking continued citizenship in the US. 

The language had to be just right. Azirapahle didn’t want Gabriel trying to warp his request, or use it as leverage for some self centered scheme. Crowley understood this, and he waited patiently (if unhappily) for their self imposed time apart to end. 

They spoke on the phone daily, filling each other in on what they’d been up to, joking, laughing, sharing, getting to know one another even better, and they had dinner, (with Beez in tow), once a week. Any more than that and Crowley would likely end up doing something he regretted. There were only so many heartfelt goodbyes and stolen kisses behind his parked car that he could stand. 

Aziraphale finally caved and moved himself to a nicer hotel, and Crowley and Beez booked themselves rooms in a lower grade one nearby. Both of them were used to living in sub par conditions, so a slightly worse for wear Days Inn wasn’t a hardship. Crowley applied for and was hired for a position as bartender in a posh place two towns over, and Beez got a job as an under the table pizza delivery person for a local pizza place. They both needed jobs that provided quick cash and jobs that they could duck out of without causing too much inconvenience when Gabriel finally signed the paperwork.

Aziraphale kept offering to pay for their lodgings, and Crowley kept turning him down. It just wasn’t in his nature to take financially from Aziraphale if he didn’t have to. Perhaps it brought back memories of how much Will had given him in the last years of the man’s life. Crowley still had some lingering guilt over Will’s incredible generosity. Perhaps that was why he’d insisted on paying his own way. 

And, it couldn’t be ignored that he still had quite a lot of savings from his job at what he and Beez had begun calling ‘The Archer Ranch.’ Gabriel had made good on his promise not to mess about with Crowley and had eventually sent over his final paycheck via Venmo. They, he and Beez, could have conceivably coasted on his earnings for a while, for at least a month or two, but Crowley didn’t see the point in wasting money if they didn’t have to, and he needed something to keep him busy. He’d bartended here and there back home in London in a few gay bars in his younger years, (you got far better tips from well off gay men than from envious straight men who didn’t like the way their wives or dates looked at Crowley), and he knew enough to make himself look knowledgeable. 

He pined daily for Azirapale, but consoled himself with the knowledge that they could be together soon. Gabriel was served the papers a week and a half after their confrontation at the house, and was taking his sweet time signing them and returning them to Aziraphale’s attorney. Crowley had remarked bitterly about this and asked if Aziraphale had a backup plan in the eventuality that Gabriel delayed indefinitely. Aziraphale had stayed calm however and stated that Gabriel was simply delaying out of a desire to be obstinate and to get back at Aziraphale in the only way he could. He _would_ sign, Aziraphale reassured him. Gabriel knew the ultimate results if he were to put off signing the papers for too long. Aziraphale preached patience, and promised that they’d be free within two more weeks at most. 

Crowley had grudgingly agreed to let the subject drop. Despite the fact that he was being driven half mad with pent up desire for Aziraphale, he could keep himself in check for a while longer. Aziraphale was worth waiting any amount of time, as long as the golden promise of being with him fully remained on the horizon like a glowing sunrise. 

Both he and Aziraphale took the time to get check ups and a full spectrum of STI tests in preparation for their reunion. On a supervised call with Gabriel, a few days after their confrontation at the house, Gabriel had sworn that he’d been diligent about using protection during his affair, but Aziraphale could no longer trust a word his soon-to-be-ex husband said. If his suspicions were correct, if Gabriel had likely been unfaithful for many years now, it was only prudent to make sure both he and Crowley got tested before becoming sexually involved. Aziraphale had not asked Crowley to get a check up, but Crowley had insisted, saying it was best to be as safe as possible. Both of their tests thankfully came back negative on all counts.

And still, their daily phone calls continued. It was frustrating to hear Aziraphale’s sweet voice on the other end of the line, but also, Crowley realized the extended conversations they shared each night were actually causing him to fall even more deeply in love. During these daily talks, he got the chance to learn about parts of Aziraphale that might have escaped his notice if they’d jumped into bed together immediately. 

_I was terrified of dogs as a child,_ Aziraphale said one night. _Absolutely petrified. A dog got me by the hem of my shirt when I was a wee thing and kept growling and tugging at me, and it completely horrified me._ Crowley smiled at the mental image of little, toe-headed Aziraphale, hiding from local dogs. He wanted to go back in time and protect that small boy, somehow stand between him and danger. 

_Did you know, there’s a special term for loving the smell of old books?_ Aziraphale had said on another night, after they’d been talking for two hours straight. _It’s called bibliosmia. I suppose that makes me a bibliosmiac?_

And last night, _Crowley dearest, sometimes I’m afraid that I might love you a bit too much. I’m in so deep over my head darling. I can’t wait until you’re finally in my arms._

Crowley replied to statements like this in his own, less poetical, more subtle ways, saying _me too angel. I can’t wait._ And _don’t worry angel, it won’t be long._ And simply _I love you angel, so much,_ feeling completely at a loss as to how to adequately express how he felt in words. Actions were really more his department.

The phone sex shouldn’t have been surprising. In fact, Crowley was more surprised that neither of them had thought about it sooner. Here they were, desperately in love and painfully randy for each other and their only mode of connection being a weekly dinner date with a chaperone, along with the nightly phone calls. And yet, it hadn’t gone in that direction until what was likely the last week of their separation. Crowley wasn’t sure why it hadn’t happened sooner. Perhaps, what with all the worries and complexities of lawyers and finding work and sorting out the temporary details of their lives, they just hadn’t thought of it. 

It started subtly, evolving out of their usual affectionate good night wishes. 

“Sleep well angel,” Crowley said

“You too my darling, though I doubt I’ll sleep all _that_ well, what with the thoughts going through my mind at the moment.” 

“Oh?” Crowley was completely unaware of any spicier meaning to Aziraphale’s statement. “Worried about the separation papers?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

“No my darling,” Aziraphale’s voice dropped a few octaves and went husky around the edges. “Those were not the types of thoughts I was referring to.” 

“Oh,” Crowley said, feeling like a fool, while his heart began to pound with the promise lying underneath Aziraphale’s words. “What sort of thoughts are we talking about here?” he asked, playing dumb for the moment, his skin prickling with anticipation. 

“Thoughts of you, being here, with me,” Aziraphale let out a sigh, the whisper of it gusting it’s way into Crowley’s ear and making his pulse race faster. 

“And what would I be doing if I were there with you?” he asked, sounding bit gruff with the swiftly building desire that was currently twisting itself up, deep inside his belly. 

“Hmm, well, I rather hoped _you’d_ be the one to answer that question, my dear.” Aziraphale’s response was coy and shy but also electrifyingly suggestive. Crowley was half hard already from the sound of it. 

“Angel,” he said teasingly, letting his voice drop a little lower, grow a little rougher with the swift amp-up of tension. “I thought we were playing it safe until your separation went through. Are you daring to suggest that we… _talk dirty_ to each other?”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale whimpered. “Don’t tease me. I’m in such a state already, just from hearing your voice. You’ll drive me mad if you tease.”

“What state would that be angel? Maybe you should tell me more about that...” he let the request linger flirtatiously between them while his whole body lit up with the promise of what might come next.

“You’ve got my cock all hard with your sexy voice,” Aziraphale purred back at him and Crowley quite literally gasped as he felt a flush of heat bloom sharp and insistant at his core, felt his cock swiftly stiffening to full tumescence at the sound of Aziraphale’s soft, needy, _horny_ voice the other end of the line. 

“Oh fuck, Aziraphale,” he moaned, swallowing thickly. “You’re going to kill me with that sort of talk. _Fuck_ , I’m so hard thinking about you.” 

“Mmm, I like hearing that darling. What would you do to me if you were here?” Aziraphale was playful, his voice sly and soft. “I don’t believe you’ve answered that question yet.” 

Crowley could hear a frantic rustling of fabric in the background of the call.. It sounded precisely like Aziraphale swiftly shoving his pyjama bottoms down. One handed. Aziraphale, who was waiting to hear Crowley describe what he wanted to do to him. Waiting patiently for the sound of Crowley’s voice. He felt tight and tingling with the expectation building between them..

“I’d tease you,” Crowley breathed gruffly into the receiver, while using his free hand to push his own tracksuit bottoms down to the tops of his thighs and taking his now painfully stiff cock in hand. “I’d take off every stitch of your clothing as slowly as possible, starting with that sweet little bow tie and ending with your tartan socks.”

“And then what?” Azirpahale’s voice had gone all weak and tremulous, and Crowley could swear he could hear the delicate rasp of skin on skin, of Aziraphale touching himself. His own hand was moving lazily over his cock in long, slow strokes. He was far too pent up to risk coming quickly, so he knew he had to take his time and be careful. Otherwise, the sound of Aziraphale’s sweet, wrecked voice on the line would do him in before he could fully enjoy this experience. 

“Are you touching yourself for me?” he asked, needing to hear his thrilling suspicion confirmed before he went any further.

“Yesss,” Azirpahale’s response came out in a whispered hiss. Crowley could almost taste how aroused the other man was, and it had him moaning softly into the phone in response. 

“Good,” he whispered back. “I love thinking about you, stroking that gorgeous cock while I tell you what I want to do to you.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice had gone warm and mirthful. “You’ve never seen my cock, you don’t know if it’s gorgeous or not,” a soft giggle made its way into the shell of Crowley’s ear and he smiled to himself, thinking of Aziraphale, laid out, cock in his hand, flushed and breathless. 

“Yes I do,” Crowley replied simply. “I know that every inch of your body is bloody _gorgeous_. All of it. From your elbows to your knees to that beautiful prick you’re stroking right now. You’re _perfect_ angel. Just perfect.” 

“You might not think that once you’ve...erm... unwrapped me,” Azirpahale replied, trying to sound lighthearted, but unable to hide the tremor of self conscious anxiety running through his tone. He was getting up in his head a little. Crowley could tell. Old ghosts of self hate coming back to haunt him.

“Yes I will, angel,” Crowley paused, thinking of the best way to soothe Aziraphale and bring him back to feeling beautiful. He never wanted the sweet, soft spoken man to feel anything but incredibly desirable ever again. “Love, you have no clue how much just the _idea_ of your body has me right on edge. Your soft belly, those thick thighs. I can’t wait to get my hands and my mouth all over you.”

A loud moan and a gasp through the earpiece of his mobile told Crowley that he’d managed to break through Aziraphale’s body worries and bring him back around to being sexually excited. The knowledge that Crowley’s voice and the sound of his desire for Aziraphale could do that, could pull him to a lustful place, made Crowley feel powerful in a loving way. In a way that made him want to see exactly now turned on he could get Aziraphale. 

“I’m going to kiss you all the way down your chest and onto your belly,” he continued, working himself a bit faster from the thrilling sensation of describing exactly what he wanted to do to Aziraphale, directly into the other man’s ear. “I’m going to suck on that patch of skin, right above your cock, and then to the sides of it, kiss you all around your cock without going where you want me to, until you’re writing under my mouth...until you’re begging me to suck you. And then…” He paused, taking a moment to enjoy the whimper Aziraphale let out on the other end of the line... “and then I’m going to run my tongue all the way up, from the base to the tip.”

He heard a strangled moan on the other end of the line. He could tell by the subtle sounds of skin on skin making their way through the earpiece, that Aziraphale had picked up his pace as well, was stroking himself faster in tandem with Crowley.

“Then,” Crowley went on, his voice strained and thick with arousal, “I’m going to sink my mouth down on you all the way… all the way down to the base,” The last few words of that sentence came out as breathless huffs of air as Crowley felt his orgasm creeping inexorably closer, spurred on by the sound of Aziraphale’s labored breathing, punctuated with soft, gasped half-words. 

“Oh goh-”, “Fuck Crow-Crowley” “I’m, I-, I can’t-”. 

Crowley was getting really close, and from the urgent moans coming through his mobile, he could tell Aziraphale was close too. “I’m going to suck you until you explode and come down my throat,” he whispered roughly into the mouthpiece and heard Aziraphale cry out, heard the other man gasp “ _Crowley,_ ” sounding ruined, sounding broken open. Crowley came with a shout, Aziraphale’s name gusting out of his gaping mouth again and again as he felt the gentle splatter of hot semen rain down onto his belly. The sounds of Aziraphale’s orgasm peaking and subsiding through the phone kept wringing waves of pleasure from Crowley, until finally, the sensations faded out into a pleasant, blissful afterglow. Crowley collapsed, letting all the tension bleed from his body, hearing Aziraphale’s soft, gasping breath in his ear. 

“Oh fuck, angel, I love you,” he whispered, feeling whole, yet shattered into a thousand pieces all at once. 

“Crowley, I love you too.” Aziraphale sounded drunk and loose. Like he had not a care in the world. Crowley loved the sound of his warm, relaxed voice, made it his personal mission just then to undo Aziraphale’s inner tension whenever the opportunity arose. 

For a moment, they both lay there, breathing heavily, coming down from the high of (what for Crowley at least was) a spectacular shared sexual climax. 

“I wish you were here so I could wrap my arms around you,” Aziraphale murmured into the phone. 

“I’d cuddle you so hard,” Crowley grinned as he sat up and started searching for a tissue or a roll of paper towels with which to clean himself up. “I hope you’re a snuggler,” he said, grunting a bit as he bent over to pick up a roll of paper towels from the floor a few feet from the bed (he’d been availing himself of quite a bit of self pleasure during these times of being separated from Aziraphale). “I’m sort of a touchy person.”

“Oh you have no idea,” Aziraphale said with a happy sigh. 

Crowley had cleaned himself adequately enough to get back into bed, and now cradled the phone against his ear and listened to Aziraphale’s breathing. He felt warm and loose and far too happy. “I’ll be seeing you soon,” he said, picturing himself kissing Aziraphale’s soft cheek. 

“I know darling. Soon,” Aziraphale replied, sounding a little drunk. “Have a good night my dear.”

“Good night angel.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of sex work. 
> 
> things get a little rough in the next couple of chapters, but don't worry, I've never once written a fic that didn't include a deliriously happy ending. Hang in there folks! And thanks again for the lovely comments! I am gobbling them up like bon bons!

Aziraphale heard his phone buzz and rushed to fish it out of his pocket, hoping it would be Crowley. Instead, his stomach clenched with anxiety at seeing Gabriel’s name on the caller id. The last thing he wanted to do was to answer the phone, but it could be about the separation agreement. He winced and hit the answer key.

“Gabriel, what is it?” he said, struggling to keep his tone civil.

“Aziraphale. I need to talk to you. In person.”

“Not going to happen Gabriel. I have no reason to meet with you. There’s nothing you have to say that I’d want to hear.”

“It’s about Crowley,” Gabriel spat out quickly before Aziraphale hung up.

“I have no desire to hear anything you have to say about Crowley. So if you’ll excuse me-” 

“Please Aziraphale.  _ Please _ . This is important. I don’t have to tell you about it, but since it might affect the terms of our divorce, I talked to my lawyer and it turns out, it’s best if you find out sooner than later.”

“Tell me now,” Azirpahale demanded impatiently, his heart hammering and his palms growing damp with sudden anxiety. What was Gabriel up to?

“I can’t. You’ll have to meet me. I have some stuff to show you. We can meet somewhere public, somewhere discreet. No need for you to come to the house. I won’t even take up much of your time. I get it now. We’re through. But this is important. This is something that you definitely need to see.” 

Aziraphale felt his blood run cold. What could Gabriel tell him about Crowley that he didn’t already know? The thought that Crowley might be cheating… might be seeing someone else on the side, bloomed like a dark, mellifluous flower inside his mind and swiftly put down roots. Gabriel was just the sort of person to delight in telling Aziraphale something like that. Perhaps he’d had Crowley followed? Old spectres of insecurity and self doubt were wending their way into his conscious mind. Doubts that told him Crowley was too beautiful for him. That Crowley could do so much better than a plump bookshop owner in his early fifties. 

He shouldn’t entertain Gabriel’s nonsense. He knew he shouldn’t. He should hang up on the man immediately. But Gabriel’s words had worked their way into his brain and now he couldn’t ignore their implication.  _ It’s about Crowley. It might affect the terms of our divorce. I have some stuff to show you. _

Against his better judgement, he agreed. “Fine. Let’s meet in the park outside Athena, the one with the fountain and the duck pond. I can see you there in an hour.”

“Thank you Aziraphale. This is important, or I’d never have asked.” 

“I’ll see you there,” Aziraphale replied coldly, ignoring Gabriel’s false gratitude and ended the call. He knew he should call his lawyer. He knew he should ask his lawyer to come along. He should call Crolwey. He  _ should  _ do many things, but right now he was shaken. Gabriel’s words were swiftly working on the part of Azirphale’s brain that thought he didn’t deserve Crowley. That all of this, him falling in love with a gorgeous, talented man who loved him back was really just an elaborate scheme. A way for god to punish him.

Now where had that thought come from? That Crowley was sent to him as a temptation and an eventual punishment from god? His mind went back to all the times he’d spent in church, hearing about the sins humanity committed to bring about the death of Christ. How his, Aziraphale’s own sins, his own relentless desires for other men had been the worst sort of transgression against god and the church.

And here he was, in the wake of a thoroughly failed marriage, preparing to head home to London with a man he’d never in his wildest dreams believed could ever love him back. Everything was falling into place. Gabriel had even conceded to a divorce. Crowley was calling him every day, telling him over and over how much he adored and desired Aziraphale. It all  _ did _ feel a bit too good to be true. 

And therein lay the rub. The juxtaposition of Aziraphale’s low self esteem and the magical surrealness of being on the cusp of a reunion with the love of his life. All it took to knock this delicate fairy castle of dreams to the ground was Crowley cheating on him. Crowley maybe having someone on the side, just like Gabriel had. What if  _ that’s  _ what Gabriel wanted to talk to him about?

By the time he’d gotten an Uber to the park, Aziraphale was a nervous mess. He got out of the car and quickly spotted Gabriel, waiting by the fountain at the center of the park. He was standing, looking sharp and well coiffed as usual, hands clasped behind his back.

Aziraphale walked up to him cautiously, stopping when he was still several feet away.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said with a self deprecating smile. “It’s good to see you again. You look well.”

“What do you need to tell me about?” Aziraphale snapped. He was a fool to have come here, to expose himself to more of Gabriel’s bollocks ideas, his manipulation. But the pure unusualness of the request had piqued his interest and tripped off his well worn fears. “Let's just get this over with so I can head back,” he added, making it  _ very _ clear that he didn’t want to spend one more minute in Gabriel’s company than was necessary. 

“Won’t you come sit down?” Gabriel asked with that same, gently mocking tone he always used when showing Aziraphale how unreasonable he was being. “We can’t very well have an actual conversation with you standing ten feet away.”

Aziraphale thought briefly of arguing with him, but then relented, coming to sit next to Gabriel, but still a few feet away, on the lip of the fountain. It was a sunny day, mild for the season, and the sunlight cast shards of little rainbows in the spray of the splashing water.

“I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you this,” Gabriel began, making Aziraphale’s gut twist with apprehension. “And I want you to know that I’ll keep this development out of the public eye. You have quite a bit of unfortunate information about me and I don’t want to get into the area of threats or anything like that. You can trust me.”

_ No I can't,  _ Aziraphale thought immediately, but simply nodded, letting Gabriel know he understood. His mouth had grown dry but his palms were damp with the anxiety running through him. 

Gabriel pulled out a manilla envelope from the inside of his jacket and passed it to Aziraphale. “Before you look at those photos, I want you to know that I did some checking up on Crowley. For your own good. This whole thing, with the two of you hooking up, it just happened so quickly and it coincided so well with you and I splitting, and I just wanted to look out for you.”

Aziraphale felt his scalp go numb and his heart begin to pound at his temples. He knew Gabriel’s reassurances that this was for Azirpahale’s good were utter bullshit, but his eyes kept being drawn down to the envelope he now had clutched in his damp, gently trembling hands. “What are you saying Gabriel?” he asked, needing to cut to the chase and get away from his toxic ex as soon as possible.

“Aziraphale, I’m really sorry, and maybe you knew this already, but your new boyfriend used to be… well there isn’t a delicate way to put his… he used to be a hooker.”

“A-a- _ hooker _ ?” Aziraphale repleated numbly. His hands were undoing the clasp on the envelope before he could stop them. Inside were several blown up photographs. Some in color, some in black and white. He pulled them out.

“I think the official term is a prostitute, but when men do it, we call it hustling,” Gabriel was saying from very far away as a high pitched singing noise filled up Aziraphale’s ears and he started feeling nausea curl in the pit of his stomach. 

“It turns out that Crowley had quite a thriving business going in the early two thousands. He did a fair bit of hooking in and around some of the seedier parts of London.”

Aziraphale didn’t want to look at the photos, but he felt compelled to anyway. He flipped through them slowly, seeing Crowley’s young, beautiful face in an assortment of compromising situations. Crowley, with a strange man’s cock in his mouth. Crowley, spread out naked with some bloke’s hand on his upper thigh, looking drunk and half conscious. Crowley waiting on street corners and hanging all over a variety of men in clubs and bars. 

“Oh shit babe. You didn’t know. I’m so sorry,” Gabriel’s voice sounded flat and dull in Azirpahale’s burning ears. He was so discombobulated that he didn’t even think to snap at Gabriel for calling him ‘babe’ again. He barely noticed in fact. 

He swallowed thickly a couple of times and let the shock of seeing these compromising photos of Crowley wash through him and away. Felt his mind rearrange itself around the new reality, that Crowley had a secret and salacious past. “So what?” He asked, unable to hide the fact that he was shaken, but already feeling himself swiftly recovering from this new information. “So, he did some things to make ends meet. This isn’t a big deal Gabriel. I’m honestly surprised that you’re so closed minded. He was young and probably in a good deal of trouble. He’s told me that his upbringing was rough.”

“Yes, but there’s more.” Gabriel, clearly proud of himself, put a new set of photos into Azirpahale’s trembling hands. These were also of a young Crowley, though perhaps a touch older than the hustling pictures, smiling into a photo booth camera, next to an older man. The two had their arms wrapped around each other and looked happy, grinning faces turned towards the camera. “Did you know he shacked up with some older pervert for four years? He got himself a sugar daddy to finance his life and get him off the streets.”

“Again Gabriel, I don’t see how this is anything to be concerned about-”

“The guy  _ paid for his tuition  _ Aziraphale. That had to have been tens of thousands of dollars the man spent on him. And… get this, the guy died of AIDS a few years later. Look,” he said, seeing the pale, stricken look on Azirpahale’s face. “I know you and I are done. I know you’ll never come back to me. But I still love you Aziraphale. I’ll regret hurting you, losing you, for the rest of my life. The least I could do was find out if this virtual stranger you’ve decided to shack up with had the best intentions toward you. And… I gotta say, he looks like he has a long history of working men over for money. Do you really believe that he genuinely fell for a rich old man with a terminal illness? What kind of saint would he have to be for that to be the case?”

Aziraphale hated that hot tears had leaped to his eyes and were threatening to fall down his cheeks. Hated crying in front of Gabriel. But the thing he hated the most, the thing he wished he could grab with both hands and squeeze the life out of, was the growing suspicion that Gabriel had a  _ point _ . If what Gabriel said was true, and it looked like he’d done his research, then Crowley  _ did _ have a history of trading sex for financial security. First with the hustling, which on its own, wasn’t concerning to Aziraphale. Lots of people turned to sex work to keep afloat in uncertain times. Or simply because they enjoyed it. Who was he to hold Crowley’s past against him?

And yet… the additional information about Crowley having a sugar daddy, of Crowley getting his entire educational career financed by an older, terminally ill man… It didn’t look good. 

He struggled to bring up all the times Crowley had refused to allow Aziraphale to buy him dinner, all the times he’d turned Aziraphale down when he’d offered to pay for he and Beez’s lodgings after Crowley had left Gabriel’s employment. He wanted those instances to serve as irrefutable proof that Crowley wasn’t looking for another free ride, but his mind, always too clever for his own good, was steadily supplying him with reasons that this wasn’t the case. Every good grifter new enough not to tip off their mark before they sealed the deal. Every grifter worth their salt knew how to deflect suspicion with slight of hand and empty compliments didn’t they?

Azirpahale felt a sick sort of dread pooling inside his chest, his fingers clutching at the photo of Crowley, smiling guilelessly and happily, looking painfully young in a string of photos with this older benefactor. Aziraphale was only about five years older than Crowley, but what did age matter? Crowley was lithe and sexy and breathtakingly beautiful, and Aziraphale? Well, Aziraphale was simply a plump, fussy relic by comparison. A relic with lots of money from his decades spent making a name for himself in the antique book trade. A sure thing. A safe bet. Hadn’t Crowley mentioned wanting to go back to school to advance his career? The timing was perfect.

Aziraphale stood suddenly and tossed the photos back at Gabriel. Most of them landed on the ground and some floated aimlessly across the surface of the fountain, with one or two falling into the other man’s lap. “Goodbye Gabriel. Let me know when you’ve decided to sign the papers. I’d appreciate it if you don’t speak to me again without both of our lawyers present.”

He stalked off then, away from Gabriel and the fountain, half blinded by hot tears that were now streaming down both of his cheeks. He walked and walked, not caring where he went, as long as it was away from Gabriel and his photos and his horrible words. His breath was heaving in and out of his lungs in burning gasps as he continued walking swiftly out of the park and onto the pavement, headed down the side of the road without a care for oncoming traffic. He knew he should call another Uber, get back to the hotel. Maybe call Crowley and ask him about this mess, but he couldn’t do anything in the moment other than sob and walk. 

And what about calling Crowley? What would that do? If Crowley really were after Aziraphale’s money, what could the man say to convince Azirpahale otherwise? Aziraphale was clearly the type of chap who fell for a pretty face and a pile of lies. He’d had as much proven to him through his marriage to one of the most dishonest, controlling, manipulative men he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. Aziraphale was apparently used to being played for a sucker. 

Crowley’s love  _ felt _ honest and real. But so had Gabriel’s. Crowley’s eyes when they met Aziraphale’s certainly  _ looked _ as if they were full of genuine affection, but how was Aziraphale to know for sure? He’d only slept with one person in his entire life. Hadn’t even dated anyone since Gabriel (unless you counted the phone calls and weekly dinners with Crowley, bringing his sibling along as chaperone as ‘ _ dating _ ’). 

Aziraphale finally calmed down enough to call an Uber and made it back to his hotel. He immediately climbed into bed and had himself a good cry. The kind that wrenched at his gut and made his throat sore. Then he fell into a fitful sleep, images of Crowley’s wicked grin dancing blearily through his mind just before unconsciousness pulled him under. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for hanging in there with me! A few more chapters to go before I wrap things up. This next chapter is a bit tough too. But the one after starts looking up. Will post both now :)

Crowley sat and stared listlessly out the window of the plane, watching white, puffy clouds float by without really seeing them, his mind miles away. Next to him, Beez had passed out and was snoring gently with their mouth hanging open. They’d tried hitting on the flight attendant, and when the woman, smiling nervously, hadn’t taken the bait, Beez had apparently decided to spend the majority of the flight unconscious. 

This was fine with Crowley. He was in no mood for his siblings' snarky comments. Though, to be fair, Beez had been unusually kind and supportive through the situation with Aziraphale. 

_ Aziraphale. _ Just thinking of the man’s name made Crowley’s heart hurt. Everything had been going so well. They’d gotten each other off on the phone for Christ’s sake! They’d whispered heart felt  _ I love you _ s before going to bed. And then… the next day, it had all started going to shit. It began with Aziraphale not answering his calls. Once could be written off as the man’s mobile being in the other room. But after five missed calls in the middle of the day, it had dawned on Crowley that perhaps Aziraphale was avoiding him. 

He’d texted, saying  _ hey angel. What’s up? _ And had received a text back, a long hour later stating  _ I need some time to think. Some space. I’m sorry Crowley _ .

_ I’m sorry Crowley _ . Seeing those words appear on the screen of his mobile phone had caused the bottom to drop out from under Crowley, had made his heart feel like a led ball in his chest. He’d showed Beez, who’d shrugged and said that sometimes people did just need space, to maybe give Aziraphale some time. And so Crowley had. He’d avoided calling Aziraphale for a solid week. Sometime midway through the seventh day of total radio silence, Aziraphale had called Crowley, and he’d rushed to pick up and answer his mobile so quickly that he almost dropped it into the sink in his bathroom where he’d just finished washing up.

“Aziraphale?” He’d said, sounding far too eager, far too anxious. 

“Hello Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was stiff and cool. The sound of it sent daggers of ice directly into the center of Crowley’s heart. He could instantly tell that something was very wrong.

“Why haven’t you spoken to me for a week?” he asked, knowing that his voice had grown sharp with paranoia, but beyond the ability to control it. “What’s happened to you?”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, a moment that felt like it dragged on forever, but was really probably three quarters of a second, before speaking. And when he did, that cool tone remained. 

“Crowley, I’ve been having some second thoughts,” His voice changed in tone to include a hint of regret and dismay. Crowley was pretty certain he could actually feel his heart break in real time, that he could feel the valves and arteries rending apart. 

“Second thoughts?” Crowley’s head felt numb, his mouth dry, his hands had begun to tremble with fear. “About us?” he asked, his voice going small and quiet with shock. “What do you mean?” He felt so dumb, like Aziraphale had said something in a different language, had maybe said something to him through a thick, wollen scarf wrapped around his mouth. “What do you mean angel.”

“I mean that I’d like to take a little time to think....” Aziraphale paused, “Perhaps that we should fly back to London separately. I’d like it if we could meet up and talk things over once we’re there and settled in. I want to get some things out in the open, but I don’t feel strong enough yet...not yet.”

“Angel, what’s wrong, please. Please tell me. Don’t do this.” 

“Crowley I…” Crowley could hear the pain and indecision in Aziraphale’s voice. It killed him. It drove a knife right through the center of him. “I...just need some time. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more now. Please believe me, I have no desire to hurt you.”

Crowley, slowly expiring from a severe case of internal emotional bleeding, had felt a sullen spark of anger flicker in his chest at the unfairness of this whole situation. Here he was, poised on the edge of a promising new life with the most beautiful, sincere, lovely, sexy man he’d ever met. His prince bloody charming. The love of his life. Except not. Except that was never going to happen now. Crowley had been on the receiving end of enough break up speeches in his day to see one coming a mile off. Why exactly did Azirpahale want to talk to him in person if not to be polite and  _ nice _ enough to do it face to face? It would be classless of Aziraphale to end it via text message or phone call wouldn’t it. And that just wasn’t like Aziraphale was it? His angel was far classier than that.

“Fine,” Crowley said, feeling himself withdraw, feeling himself close up and curl around his wounded heart. “Take all the time you need,” he spat out bitterly. “Don’t feel you have to meet with me in person to be  _ polite _ about dropping me either, by the way.” Once he’d started spilling out the vitriol, it was proving very hard to stop. “We can call it quits right now. Don’t feel you have to  _ think about it _ before telling me we’re finished. If you know it’s what you want, let’s just get it over with.”

The silence on the other end was loaded with unspoken shock. “Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “If you can’t accept a break to allow me to think over a life change of this magnitude, then I have to wonder how committed you really were to this relationship.” 

_ Were _ , Aziraphale’s use of past tense made Crowley ache with a sick, dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah,” he said, dead-voiced, shell shocked. “I guess I wasn’t that committed to it huh.” And then he hung up. 

Now, three days later, here he was, on a plane headed to Heathrow, head full of unanswered questions and heart full of sad longing, mixed up with frustrated anger, staring blindly out at the clouds floating serenely past the window. 

Clouds reminded him of Aziraphale. Everything soft and sweet reminded him of Aziraphale. The man’s cold voice on the phone had been a side of Aziraphale that Crowley hadn’t met yet. The fight or flight Aziraphale. The uncertain, falling out of love Aziraphale that Crowley hadn’t been prepared to be confronted with. Not ever. It had caused him actual trauma. He was certain of it. Aziraphale’s rejection of him, of  _ them _ as a couple had cut a hole in his heart that made him feel colder, weaker, more vulnerable to the elements somehow. 

Beez had tried to help. At first, hearing what had transpired on the phone, they’d insisted on going to speak to Aziraphale. Crowley though had forbidden them. Or, at least, at first he’d  _ tried _ to forbid them. He’d ended up following them out to the parking lot and trying to bodily prevent them from getting in the car to go talk to Aziraphale.

_ But, he loves you so much! _ Beez had exclaimed, while trying to duck under Crowley’s armpit and reach for the door handle as Crowley had plastered himself across the driver’s side of the car. 

_ Clearly that’s not true Beez!  _ Crowley had yelled,  _ Clearly, he was having ‘second thoughts’ and wanted to get together for a ‘talk’. You’re a smart person. What does that usually mean when it happens to you?? _

After several more heartfelt demands that Beez was  _ not _ to go find Aziraphale and talk to him, they’d both trudged back to the hotel and begun packing. Crowley knew it was killing Beez a little not to march over to Aziraphale’s and insist that the man love their brother. It was their way. To be direct, obnoxious, pushy. It was their way to weedle and poke until people did what they wanted, and people often did, because it was either that, or resort to violence. Beez was tenacious. And that was an admirable quality, especially when they were offering to bend that tenacity toward convincing the love of Crowley’s life to love him back. But they couldn’t fix this. 

Beez had finally seen Crowley’s point when he’d broken down crying, had gripped them by the shoulders and sobbed it into their face.  _ You’re not going to make me look any less pathetic by marching over there and demanding that they love me Beez. You can’t do that to me. Let me just sleep it off with my dignity intact. Please.  _

Beez had relented, and had let him do just that. They’d let him lie around in bed, alternately leaking tears and staring at the wall and falling in and out of fitful naps for two days, until they’d insisted he eat something and had brought a pizza box into his room and plunked it onto his bed.

_ Eat,  _ they’d said insistently.  _ I’m an orphan now. You can’t die and leave me alone in the world. _ They’d meant to be sarcastic, but Crowley had heard the worry underlying their forced, casual tone, and he’d known they were really concerned for his safety. He’d sat up and sullenly chewed on a piece of veggie pizza, glaring at them around chunks of broccoli and crumbles of black olive. 

Upon landing at Heathrow, they waited together, like a pair of sad crows, perched by the side of the luggage carousel for their bags to tumble down the conveyor belt. Then, bags in hand, they’d made their way to yet another hotel. They’d wordlessly decided to stick together from here on out. Crowley found that he’d come to rely on Beez emotionally. That he liked having their surly, womanizing, cynical self around to make him laugh and give him someone to snap at when he wasn’t feeling well. Beez, for their part, seemed to be genuinely dedicated to being a part of Crowley’s life going forward. They’d not had much healthy quality time as kids, and so this felt like a chance to reconnect and get to know one another again. And if Crowley were honest, his sibling was something of a liferaft in the stormy sea of grief he found himself awash in after breaking it off with Aziraphale. For the first few days, it had been nightmarish, and he didn’t know what he would have done if Beez hadn’t been there, making him cups of tea, yelling at him to get up and take a shower because he smelled ‘horrid’. They’d bullied him into a self care routine that had kept his head above water.

Returning to London was almost too much on top of his heartache. The once familiar streets all looked different to him now, after more than a decade spent abroad. He’d looked forward so much to rediscovering London at Aziraphale’s side, that for a few days, he’d been unable to leave their hotel. But eventually, he’d needed to go out in search of work, had needed to spruce up his resume and go on some job interviews. He and Beez needed a real place to stay. Things needed to be done, and lying around in bed, or spending the days watching telly with unseeing eyes like a heartbroken zombie wasn’t putting food on the table or money in his bank account. 

He soon found a new job for a wealthy woman who had an indoor greenhouse, and who was overjoyed to have a horticulturist of Crowley’s skill and reputation on the payroll. The job paid really well, more even than he’d made working for Gabriel Archer. Within two months, he and Beez had moved to a sleek, spacious three bedroom flat in Mayfair. Beez also found work to help pay their part of the rent, working as a server in an upscale restaurant. They hated it, what with the obnoxiously snobby customers, and everyone misgendering them sixteen times a day, but, the tips were plentiful, and after realizing that a week’s pay was worth a month spent making coffees and specialty drinks in some cafe, they stopped grumbling and plastered a friendly smile on their face. 

Things returned to normal for a while. Well,  _ normal _ meaning that there was a dull ache that underlaid every aspect of Crowley’s new life, but that he’d grown accustomed to it. Thoughts of Aziraphale had decreased from haunting his every waking minute, to only cropping up ten to fifteen times a day, whenever he saw a piece of posh cake in a takeaway container in the fridge that Beez had brought home from work. Or every time he smelled Indian food. Every time he passed a bookshop and saw a volume of poetry in the window. Every time he smelled vanilla. Every time he caught a flash of bleach blond hair out of the corner of his eye, making his head whip around and his heart leap in his chest. 

The pain eased a little bit day by day. It was still rough though. He still cried himself to sleep now and then. He was still too sad to wank, let alone try and date anyone. Beez did their best to keep him distracted, mostly by making fun of him in a companionable way and forcing him to eat periodically. 

Another month crept by, then another, and Crowley began to grow used to his new/old life. London’s streets looked so different to him now, but where they’d once been haunted by the memories of his work as a hustler, a thief and a good-for-nothing hoodlum in his youth, they now just reminded him of his broken dreams. It would take a long time to truly heal from the loss of Aziraphale, but he had no choice. He had to soldier onward, putting one foot in front of the other as the pain slowly, oh so slowly receded to a dull ache. 


	25. Chapter 25

Aziraphale stayed in New York a little longer than he’d wanted to, letting weeks stretch into a a month and a half almost without realizing it. Gabriel finally signed the papers, and he was free to leave, but he dawdled with making arrangements. London had been where he’d planned to build a new life with Crowley. Now that Crowley had told him they were through, the pull to return home had been cut virtually in half. And to tell the truth, he’d sunken into a low mood ever since they’d called it quits. He found it frightfully difficult to focus on plans for travel, difficult to face the prospect of his brother’s round, honest face on the skype call to make arrangements regarding the bookshop. Without Crowley to return to, what was the point? 

He knew that he’d been the one to push he and Crowley’s breakup into the sphere of reality. That he’d been the one to suggest it, in the form of a cowardly request to take some more time, and his mention of having a ‘talk’ with Crowley at some point in the future. He may not have been experienced with romance and relationships, but it was pathetically transparent to ask for a talk. Talks never meant anything good. He knew it, and clearly, so did Crowley, whose voice had gone hurt, and then angry before telling Aziraphale they should just end it now and save themselves both the trouble. 

Aziraphale had hung up and proceded to cry the rest of the day away. He’d cried so hard that his throat was raw and ruined from sobs and his face had gone all red and chapped. He wanted to call Crowley back and beg his forgiveness, to promise to be his forever, and then, the memory of Gabriel’s words and Gabriel’s photos of Crowley would creep back into his mind. He’d remind himself that he was a fool to have believed someone as fantastically attractive, worldly and talented as Crowley could love him. The ghost of Gabiel’s voice saying _the guy paid for his tuition Aziraphale._

And there Crowley had been, talking of wanting to go back for a doctorate, wanting to start a new life, and all of a sudden, falling in love with the frumpy, hopelessly outdated, _independently wealthy_ man he worked for. 

Then he’d grow weak, and remember that Crowley had insisted on paying for his half of dinner at the Indian restaurant. He remembered that Crowley had put up a fight every single time Aziraphale offered to buy him and Beez dinner. That Crowley had insisted on covering the hotel costs for he and Beez. Then he’d convince himself that Crowley had only good intentions towards him, that Crowley truly loved him. 

And the cycle would start all over again. The pure fact of Crowley’s beauty. His slender arms and legs and large golden brown eyes and his unbelievable sex appeal was the clue that always dragged him back into worry and anguish. Why? Why would someone like Crowley love someone like Aziraphale? All of Crowley’s compliments and sweet touches receded into the background of his mind, became colorless and meaningless under the onslaught of Aziraphale’s spinning anxiety over his own worthlessness. 

He’d kept putting off his journey home, over and over. He told himself he really should linger until he could ensure that the movers had safely packed up and moved all six thousand two hundred and twenty three of his books from Gabriel’s library. He wrote earnest thank you emails and sent bonus checks to Agnes and Octavio, and to the massage therapists and their mechanic, thanking them all personally for the work they’d done for he and Gabriel. He called Jeannette from the book club and had a tearful chat with her about how he’d asked for a divorce and how he’d be leaving to go home to London. She and Christopher had adamantly insisted that he come to one more book club meeting, and he’d gone and gotten utterly pissed, sobbing into Christina’s shoulder, who’d sobbed along with him, being that she’d also been dumped recently. They’d all assumed that he’d been crying over his marriage and he hadn’t corrected them. No need to drag he and Crowley’s non-relationship and their drama into the evening.

  
  


Eventually, he’d give up and put his sadness and worry and grief to the side long enough to start half heartedly looking for flights back to London. And eventually, his crying jags grew less and less intense and happened less and less often. He spent a few hours talking to Sandalphon about coming home, and how they’d restructure the business in order to welcome Aziraphale back into the daily operations of the shop. He booked a flight. Packed his bags. Worked out the details of returning to his old life. He’d emailed Anathema and Deirdre, telling him when he was coming home, that he’d left Gabriel and that he just needed a little time to grieve and adjust before reaching out to his oldest, dearest friends. He didn’t mention Crowley. 

A few days into returning home, it felt like he’d never left. Sandalphon was a pleasant coworker, and the two even struck up a cautious sort of brotherly friendship, Sandy being Aziraphale’s only family who he was in contact with. 

He discovered that his brother actually loved books and reading as well, though his interests tended to lie squarely in the realm of adventure novels, science fiction and fantasy. Pure escapism, which made sense as Sandy was painfully shy and introverted. To Aziraphale’s delight, a week after Aziraphale had returned, Sandy shyly introduced him to his new girlfriend, Adelle. Adelle was a tall, slender woman, with a plain but friendly face, and a shock of exceedingly curly ginger hair. She was painfully shy, just like her boyfriend, and hid her long, angular frame in dark hoodies and baggy trousers. The two of them spent hours discussing the merits of Asimov vs. Anthony vs. Tolkien in the back room of the shop, and Aziraphale even caught Sandy, going up on tiptoes to give his towering girlfriend a kiss. It made his heart happy to see that Sandy had finally found someone to be with, but it also made his heart ache for the loss of Crowley from his life. 

Anathema and Deirdre had come round as soon as Aziraphale messaged them, telling him he was up for company. Aziraphale had hugged them and cried, and then had kept crying, far past the point anyone would consider natural for a reunion between friends who hadn’t seen each other for a few years. The two women had pounced on him, insisting that he tell them what was up, and he’d had no choice but to spill the beans about Crowley. 

“Oh no, Azi, that’s horrible!” Deirdre exclaimed, enfolding him in probably the tenth hug since she’d arrived. Anathema rushed to put on some herbal tea. “It’s got fennel and echinacea in it,” she’d explained. “It will help bolster your immune system and align your Chi.” 

Aziraphale sniffled and thanked them both for being so understanding and had eventually told them the entire story. About him falling for Crowley, Crowley returning his feelings. Him ending his marriage with Gabriel because of the cheating. (‘Wanker!’ - from Deirdre. ‘What a fucking asshole’ - from Anathema.) 

He then brought up the whole situation with Gabriel, the photos, the unfortunate timing of Crowley’s getting closer to Aziraphale just as Crowley had wanted to move home and go back to school. About Crowley’s history of trading sex and affection for money and support. He told them about the horrible phone call, during which he’d asked for space and Crowley had gotten angry and bitter and had broken it off immediately. 

“He clearly realized his meal ticket was ruined and so, he cut ties and ran off without so much as a by your leave,” Aziraphale was saying, after blowing his nose for the sixth time. “Isn’t that a bad sign? That he found out I wanted some space and immediately said he was finished with me?”

“Possibly,” Deirdre mused, looking thoughtful. “But not always. He was probably really freaked out by you pushing him away. Did you ever stop to think about that?”

“Yeah,” piped up Anathema, putting a warm hand to his shoulder. “One minute he was preparing to start a new life with the most wonderful man he’d ever met, and the next, you're giving him the cold shoulder routine. I know I’d lose my shit if Newt did that to me. Crowley probably just couldn’t cope and cut ties to avoid having you break his heart by explicitly telling him you were leaving.”

“Yes, yes, that could be the case,” Aziraphale admitted glumly. “But also Anathema dear, he looks like a bloody celebrity and he could have anyone he wanted. And he’s lived so much of his life as a kept man.”

“And?” Deirdre butted in this time. “If you think about it love, so have you.”

Aziraphale had to admit she had a point. He himself had lived like a bird in a cage for far too many years, relying on Gabriel’s massive wealth and influence so that he could forget about making decisions for himself. So that he could give up the reins of his own life and let someone else tell him what to think and say and do. “That doesn’t make Crowley’s love for me any more real though,” he replied with a sad frown. 

“Did you bring any of this up to him?” Anathema asked, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“ _How could I_?” Aziraphale replied, anguished. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Crowley darling, is it true that you only want to be with me for my money?’ or perhaps, ‘Crowley dear, are you a scam artist, looking for a free dinner?’” He then remembered all the times Crowley had actively turned down Aziraphale’s offers to buy him dinner and flinched guiltily. 

“Look,” Anathema said, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him gently. “You _have_ to talk to him. Call him. Text him. Something. You can’t just let this go without asking him about the truth.”

“Do you know where he’s staying? Maybe you could just stop by?” Deirdre put a hand on his knee and looked beseechingly at him. 

“Well, as a matter of a fact I do. Beez texted their new address to me a few weeks ago, but I didn’t have the heart to respond.”

“Who’s Beez?” They both asked in unison. Aziraphale would have laughed if he weren’t so utterly miserable. 

“They’re Crowley’s non binary sibling. They’re actually quite wonderful, and I’m in love with them too… in a platonic way. It kills me to think of them wondering why I’m not around anymore, thinking I dropped their brother out of the blue.”

“Might I see that text message?” Anathema asked, a crafty glint sparking in her eyes. She and Dierdre exchanged glances, then both turned twin mischievous looks to Aziraphale. 

“No!” he yelped. “No! You can’t play matchmaker! Not this time. This time it’s serious!”

“That only means we should try twice as hard to play matchmaker,” Deirdre said with a lopsided grin. Anathema nodded in agreement, smiling broadly. 

“Tell us his address Aziraphale. Tell us or we’ll start spreading around a rumor that you’re having a sale on romance classics.”

“I’ll do no such thing!” Azirpahale wailed, grabbing his mobile and clutching to his chest. “He hates me. He won’t want to talk to me.” 

“We won’t be talking to _him_ silly,” scolded Dierdre, giving Anathema a sidelong look.

“Yeah, clearly not,” replied Anathema with another nod. “We’ll go talk to this mysterious Beez person, hash out the situation first.”

“Look,” Deirdre cut in again, “if you don’t tell us, we’ll find them anyway. We _do_ know how to use the internet. There can’t be all that many ‘Crowleys’ in London.”

“There are probably four thousand Crowleys in London, and you’re both terrible people,” Aziraphale groused, but he also relented, unlocking his phone and showing the text to his well meaning friends. He’d memorized it already. 

_When you’re ready to stop being a twat, come find us_

And then the address. In a nice part of Mayfair that Aziraphale happened to know well from his many walks around the city, but which he’d studiously avoided going near during the short time he’d been home. 

He watched, half relieved, half eaten up by dread as Anathema jotted down the address. “Well, we’ll be off now,” she said, picking up her fringy bag and sparkly hippy shawl. Deirdre too grabbed her bag and scarf and the two of them were suddenly walking toward the door.

“Wha- What are you? Wait!” Aziraphale spluttered, rising to follow them to the door, quickly suppressing the urge to grab them both by the arm and attempt to keep them from leaving. “You can’t go talk to Beez _now!_ ”

“Yes we can. You just sit tight,” Anathema grinned and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, and then they were gone. The shop door swung shut behind them with a jingle, and Aziraphale was left alone with a heart half full of fear and half full of hope.


	26. Chapter 26

Crowley heard the doorbell chime from where he was in the kitchen. It was Saturday, and he had off from work. He was just getting ready to microwave some leftovers from the night before so he and Beez (also with a rare day off) could have some lunch. 

“Who the hell could that be?” he asked distractedly as he walked over to the call box on the door and hit the intercom button.

“Fuck if I know,” Beez mumbled from the couch, sitting up a bit straighter and putting down the book they’d been reading, perking up a little with curiosity. 

“Hullo?” Crowley asked. There was a brief crackle from the speakers and then a female voice, strident yet polite rang out into the flat. 

“Is this Crowley?”

Crowley shrugged and replied, “Yeah. May I ask who this is?”

“It’s Anathema Device and Deirdre Young. We’re… we’re friends of Aziraphale’s.”

Crowley froze, the only sound he could hear was the thump of his suddenly pounding heart in his ears. This quickly resolved itself into the thump-thump of Beez’s footfalls as they hurried over to the call box, pressed their thumb down on top of Crowley’s on the button to reestablish the connection, and spoke into the intercom. “Fabulous! Come on up ladies!”

“Beez!” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth as his sibling pushed the button to buzz the door open. “ _ Why did you do that _ ?”

“Because you wanted to, but you’re too much of a mess to invite them in,” Beez replied, looking up at him with a stubborn sort of determination he knew well. No point in arguing with them now. 

A minute later, they could both hear the lift doors dinging open from the hall outside Crowley’s flat. Beez swung the door open and leaned out into the hallway. “Right this way ladies,” they said smoothly, with their most charming voice. The one they reserved almost exclusively for attractive women. 

Crowley swallowed thickly, feeling sweat break out at his hairline and start to make a tickling journey down his back to pool at the elastic waistband of his pants.  _ Aziraphale’s friends. Aziraphale’s friends coming to visit him. _ His heart leapt at the possibilities of why they could be showing up at his doorstop.

The tick-tack of a pair of shoes coming down the hallway resolved themselves into two women, in their mid to late forties by the look of them. Both quite beautiful, one with long dark hair, tinted here and there with strands of silver, who had amazing brown doe eyes and dusky skin. The other, a pert blond with a sunny smile. They awkwardly stepped inside Crowley’s flat, shaking hands with Beez, who’d adopted their usual casual swagger by leaning against the door frame and winking at them. 

They immediately turned to Crowley, looking him up and down with obvious approval. “You must be Crowley,” said the blond. “I’m Deirdre, and this is Anathema.”

“Hi,” Crowley managed to get out, stepping forward to shake both of their hands. “Can I get you something to drink?” He was leaning heavily on the muscle memory of being a polite host, using the excuse of offering them beverages as a way to avoid having to do any actual thinking or processing in the moment. 

“No thank you, but it’s kind of you to offer.” Anathema said in her American accent. Crowley could just pick up a twang of some other accent mixed in. Central American? Portuguese? Italian? It was hard to tell, but it only served to make the dark haired beauty appear more exotic. Not that she needed much help in that department. On top of being drop dead gorgeous, she was dressed in a flowing, dark gray skirt, a vintage, faded red cotton blouse covered with lacy bits and had a maroon and purple scarf wrapped about her shoulders that had (yes,) sequins stitched all over it. Several necklaces sporting crystals of varying sizes hung around her neck and she had on a pair of delicate looking dream catcher earrings in purple frames with red thread forming the intricate spider web design in their centers. She was quite a striking figure. 

Next to her, Dierdre’s looks were far less dramatic. The shorter woman had a glossy blond bob and dressed in muted tones. A jean skirt and black jumper and sensible low, dark brown heels. She looked like a teacher, or possibly an off duty school principal. She was just as pretty as Anathema, but in a far subtler manner. Both women appeared quite friendly and curious. After giving Crowley another nervous yet clearly discerning once over, they’d let their eyes drift up to the high ceilings and austere yet posh furniture Beez and Crowley had agreed upon to buy for the flat. 

“Quite a nice place you have here,” Anathema said, brows climbing in what looked like surprise. Next to her, Deirdre nodded and he watched while the two women exchanged knowing glances. 

“Thank you,” Crowley said numbly. 

“Won’t you come in and sit down?” Beez asked. “I’m Beez by the way, Crowley’s younger sibling. I  _ will _ probably hit on one or both of you within the next ten minutes. Just want to be upfront about it.”

“Is that so?” Deirdre replied with a sly grin. “Unfortunately Beez, we’re both happily married women, but I’m flattered.”

“Never stopped them before,” Crowley grumbled, earning him a glare from his sibling, as they showed the two guests into the living area and offered them seats on Crowley’s large, fake leather sofa. 

“We’re actually here to talk to you both about Aziraphale,” Anathema said as she sat and folded her hands in her lap. 

Crowley could have guessed as much, but the simple mention of the man’s name made his heart twist inside his chest and his stomach do flip flops. 

“Thank  _ god _ !” Beez exclaimed, dropping into a nearby armchair. “It’s about bloody time!”

“Beez!” Crowley snapped at them, giving them a severe warning look, which Beez completely ignored.

“My brother’s been a total mess ever since Aziraphale dropped him.”

“He didn’t drop me,” Crowley rushed to correct his mouthy sibling, feeling his face heat up with the embarrassment of being discussed as if he weren’t in the room. “But I could tell he wanted to, and that was enough. Look, I’m sorry for my sibling. They can’t quite seem to grasp the concept of social niceties… or personal boundaries,” he said, turning towards the two women.

“Hey, no problem,” Deirdre soothed. “We came by because Aziraphale’s just as miserable, and we think he may be labouring under some misconceptions that we thought we could help clear up.”

“I  _ like _ them,” Beez said to Crowley, grinning impishly. “They know how to properly stick their noses in other people’s business. It’s an acquired skill.” 

“Look, we don’t mean to meddle,” Anathema began.

“Yes we do,” corrected Dierdre with a grin and a wink in Beez’s direction.

“Alright, so maybe we  _ do _ mean to meddle, just a little,” Anathema admitted with a sly smile. “But it’s for a good cause.” She turned to Crowley and he saw her facial features align themselves into a serious expression. “Aziraphale loves you,” she said solemnly, “and I have a feeling you might love him back.”

  
“Yes, I do,” Crowley said softly, feeling his chest constrict with the truth of what he was saying. “He means a lot to me,” he finished lamely, unable to explicitly say how he felt.

“Well…” Deidre said hesitantly, “would you mind telling us why? I mean  _ we know why _ , we’re his closest friends. Only…” here she paused, seeming unsure of how to word what she was about to say next, “he seems to have no clue why you care, and he’s gotten up in his head something dreadful. It seems a little bird had been feeding him some unsettling information about you and your past… and well, it didn’t end up looking very good for you and your intentions.” 

“ _ Gabriel _ ,” Beez growled out the man’s name like a curse, clenching both hands into fists. 

“Yes, Gabriel,” Anathema confirmed. “He… well… he showed Azirpahale some pictures he dug up from your past.

Crowley’s brain swiftly supplied him with a plethora of memories he’d buried long ago. Memories of being incredibly drunk, of being temporarily blinded by the flash of a polaroid camera, of posing for pictures with his arms draped around a succession of johns who wanted to prove to their mates that they could land a hot redheaded twink. Of course there were pictures, and  _ of course _ Gabriel had gone and dug them up. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, feeling his stomach drop sickeningly with the thought that Aziraphale could have seen these images for himself. 

“Yeah,” affirmed “Deirdre. He was really shook up. But that’s not all.”

Crowley looked at them both, eyes wide with confusion, wracking his brain for anything else Gabriel could possibly tell Azirapahle about that was hiding in Crowley’s shady past. 

“Yes, it seems he found some pictures and dug up some information about you and a… well… a good friend that you used to live with…” Anathema was trying very hard to be tactful. To allow Crowley to fill in the blanks for them without making any assumptions. 

“Will? But why would he try to threaten Aziraphale with Will? That doesn’t…”

“Crowley,” Beez cut in, their voice unusually kind. “He supported you financially for years and paid for all your schooling.” 

Suddenly, the big picture made itself clear to Crowley. His eyes widened as the truth hit him like a sack of flour to the head. “Oh no,” he breathed. “No, he  _ didn’t _ . He didn't imply...” He could feel his eyes filling with angry, helpless tears. “How  _ dare _ he! How fucking  _ dare _ he?!!” He jumped to his feet and began pacing, avoiding the surprise and pity on the faces of the two women and Beez, who sat staring at him while he melted down completely. 

“That fucking  _ bastard _ . That no good, smarmy, disingenuous, cold hearted piece of shit!” To think, that Gabriel had the  _ nerve _ to tell Aziraphale lies. To make it look as if Crowley was nothing more than a money hungry gold digger. To imply that Aziraphale’s money was all Crowley could be after. An accusation that was especially horrid when viewed against the backdrop of Crowley’s utterly wasted, fucked in the head, absolute total adoration of Aziraphale as a person.

Something horrible occurred to him then, “He believed Gabriel, didn’t he?” he swung around to stare wide eyed at Aziraphale’s two friends on the couch. They both nodded sadly. 

“Well, to be fair,” Anathema pointed out, “he really didn’t  _ want  _ to believe him. He struggled with it for a long time. Cried his eyes out. But I guess being married to Gabriel for two decades will do a number on anyone’s self esteem.” 

“Yeah, Anathema said glumly. “Aziraphale isn’t what you’d call effortlessly self confident. He’s been told he was shit by his parents his whole childhood, and then Gabriel just sort of took over where his parents left off.”

“Do you really love him?” Dierdre asked, shaking Crowley out of the pang of pained sympathy he felt when contemplating Aziraphale’s horrid conditioning.

Anathema gave her a warning look, but she waved it off. “I’m serious Ana, I think this is something we’re entitled to ask. If this whole mess was brought about by Gabriel implying that Crowley only wants our Azi because of his money, I’d like to hear it from Crowley’s mouth about how he really feels. So Crowley,” she turned to face him again, expectant and nervous all at once. “Do you love him?”

“ _ Of course I do _ .” Crowley replied, then, to his horror, he felt sobs pushing up through his mouth in great heaving gasps. Tears leapt to his eyes and burst forth as if escaping a dam, and he covered his face with his hands, hoping to hide the shame of his complete meltdown from these two strangers in his living room. 

“I love him so bloody much,” he sobbed. “I haven’t had a moment of real happiness since we last spoke,” his voice escaped through his interlaced fingers in awkward, wet stutters. “I… I thought we w-would spend the rest of our lives to-together,” he wailed, dropping into a chair to the side of the sofa and bending in half so that he could rest his head on his folded arms atop his knees. 

His face was burning with embarrassment and shame. Here he was, breaking down completely in front of two of Aziraphale’s closest friends, strangers to boot, and yet, he couldn’t stop himself. It felt good to cry, even through the awkwardness of doing it with an audience. He’d been bottling it all up for weeks and weeks on end, not letting his pain or anger or fear show all the way so as to not upset Beez. So he didn’t lose control. But the very fact that these two women were here, trying to broker an understanding between him and Aziraphale? It was too much. He stopped trying to speak and let himself simply weep pathetically into his hands.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and, thinking it was Beez, lifted his probably tearstained mess of a face to reassure them. He was surprised when instead of his siblings face, he saw Anathema’s concerned brown eyes. She’d come and kneeled next to him, hand on his shoulder, face etched with sympathy.

“I can tell you love him very very much,” she said. “And looking around this place, it’s laughable to think you need any of his money, let alone that you’d be after him for  _ just  _ his money. You have to go talk to him,” she said gently. 

“I can’t though,” Crowley hiccuped as he tried to rein in his tears and have an actual, understandable verbal exchange with the woman kneeling at his side. “I told him we’re through. He… he hurt me really badly when he told me he had cold feet… that he wanted time apart. I couldn’t take it if he turned me away again.”

“But he  _ won’t _ ,” this from Beez, accompanied by a fervent nod from Dierdre. “C’mon man. You know he loves you. He’s just scared.”

“And  _ I’m not _ ??” Crowley asked them angrily. “Beez, not sure if you remember, but he went from telling me he loved me to avoiding me for a solid week to saying he had to rethink our relationship. And all because he assumed I only wanted to take advantage of his money. That I was only after a free ride. Maybe I’m just a little bit angry at him… did you ever think of that?  _ And  _ I’m bloody terrified.”

“He’s miserable without you,” Anathema soothed, squeezing his arm warmly and giving him a cautious smile. “You should have heard him earlier today when we confronted him about it. He was a total mess. Sort of like how you’re being right now.” She smiled kindly to take the sting out of her words. “I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“So why doesn’t he come to me?” Crowley wailed, his desperate eyes searching Anathema’s face for answers. “Why do I have to put my neck out there and risk having my heart broken yet again?”

“Because,” Beez interrupted, “ _ One of you _ has to do it. Because you’re both so completely wrecked for each other. And, might I remind you, that  _ I _ one hundred percent tried to talk to him for you weeks ago, and you forbade me to do so for fear you’d come off looking weak. So… it’s your turn now.” They smirked in a self satisfied manner that made Crowley want to smack them, but he had to grudgingly admit that they had a point. He  _ had _ forbade Beez from going to Aziraphale to talk it out on that horrible day, almost two months ago now.

“He won’t want to see me,” he replied weakly. 

“Yes he will.” Anathema said softly. “He’s longing for you, just like you’re longing for him. He’s just really scared.”

“But how do I...? How do I fix it?” Crowley felt his tears threaten to return, but held them back from sheer force of will. 

“Just go talk to him,” Dierdre said, rising to come walk over and place a reassuring hand on Crowley’s other shoulder while he looked up into her sincere face. “That’s the only thing you  _ can do. _ Tell him the truth. Tell him how you feel. It has to be better than giving up, yes?”

Crowley looked at both of their concerned faces, then over to his sibling, who looked like they might also be on the verge of tears, if the shine in their pale blue eyes was any indication. 

“Fine.” he said. “I’ll go talk to him.”

He thought he’d be blinded by the glow of three happy people, grateful smiles on their faces. 


	27. Chapter 27

Aziraphale saw the text come in from Anathema and tried to squelch the bloom of hope it caused to well up inside him. 

**_We talked to him. Will come over to talk about it soon._ **

Good. That was good. He could hear the bad news from his two closest friends, rather than have to deal with a confrontation with Crowley. What could Crowley possibly have to say to him anyway? He’d frozen the man out. He’d turned away from him and left him in the dark because of his own stupid fear. He was pretty certain Crowley wouldn’t want to see him at this point, let alone rehash the painful details of their break up. 

He made sure to put on a kettle for tea and went and unlocked the door to the shop so they could let themselves in. It was five o’clock on a Monday, and it was unlikely that any actual customers would be poking their head in during the after work rush hour. People were usually headed home for an evening meal with their families, and noone wanted to take time out from their busy commute to peruse for old books in a dusty old shop. 

He was just pouring boiling water into his teapot when he heard the shop bell jingle as the door opened and shut again. He felt a twinge of confusion at hearing only one set of shoes thunking their way into the shop. Perhaps a customer _had_ decided to come in to poke around after all? He prepared himself to tell them to politely get lost, that he was just about to close, and rounded the corner only to stop dead in his tracks. 

Crowley stood in the front of the shop, stopping abruptly when he saw Aziraphale appear from behind a set of shelves that shielded the main room of the shop from his small kitchenette in the back. He looked the same as he always had. Long, lanky, clad in black. There were small differences. His hair was a little longer, falling further toward his shoulders than it had the last time Aziraphale had seen him. He was wearing a new jacket with a stripe of red under the collar, one Azirphale didn’t recognize. But his shades were in place (as usual), and he had on his old pair of black boots. 

For a heart pounding few seconds they simply stood and stared at one another. Time seemed to slow down and stop. Aziraphale madly wished he could rewind it, could magically turn back the clock and take back all of his thoughts and actions from the past month and a half. Make all that pain and uncertainty go away. 

“Hello,” he said softly. 

“Hi,” Crowley responded, guarded. Not using Aziraphale’s nickname for once, and that killed him just a little bit inside. 

“I thought you were Anathema and Deirdre,” Azirpahale said, uselessly, just to have something to say. 

“I like them,” Crowley replied. “They must be good mates. They really care about you.” 

Aziraphale took a sharp breath in, that embarrassingly hitched a bit in the middle. “Yes. They’re brilliant. Best mates ever.”

They both lapsed again into an uncomfortable silence that stretched out for several heart beats.

Aziraphale felt he should say something. Anything. Only all the things he could think of to say were horridly personal and revealing. _I’ve missed you_. _Why didn’t you want to talk it out?_ _You look so good_ , crowded at the back of his tongue and vied for a chance to leave his lips, but he clamped down on all of those terribly forward statements and maintained the gut wrenching silence instead. 

Crowley took a few slow steps over to a nearby shelf and ran a long fingered, elegant hand over the spines of the books, as if he were stroking the leaves of one of his beloved plants. Aziraphale tracked the movement with hungry eyes, feeling himself flush with the flood of memories he’d stored up of those beautiful hands moving through vines and flowers, lifting stems and leaves with a lover’s careful touch. 

“Are you happy to be back in your shop?” Crowley asked, his voice unreadable. 

“Yes. Very much so,” Aziraphale replied, trying not to sound as if his heart was in his throat. Trying not to sound like a man in a trance. He could barely believe that Crowley was here, in his shop, in the flesh. He’d had so many anguished, sad dreams, indulged in so many shameful fantasies since he’d last seen him. He was a mixed up mess over the man, and yet, here he was, plain as day, inside Aziraphale’s shop. 

“I’m glad,” Crowley responded, and a little bit of real warmth made its way into his voice. 

“Crowley-” Aziraphale began, but Crowley cut him off.

“I have a lot of things to tell you Aziraphale,” he said swiftly, looking up and over at Aziraphale with shaded eyes, his mouth pressed into a determined line. “Things I should have said back when you wanted to call it quits, but I didn’t have the strength to say.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to disagree, to tell Crowley he hadn’t truly wanted to end it, that he’d only been scared and confused, but Crowley spoke again, robbing him of the chance to interject. 

“I thought we could just sit somewhere quiet and talk, if that’s alright with you.”

“Yes, yes of course,” Aziraphale replied with a stiff nod. “I have a small sitting room and a kitchenette back here, There’s a sofa. Please, go back and make yourself at home. I’ve just put on tea and I’ll… I’ll lock the door so we’re not disturbed.” He watched as Crowley nodded and sauntered his way toward the back of the shop, then, dragging his eyes regretfully from the man’s swinging hips, he hurried to turn both sets of locks on the door and flip the Open sign inward. 

He bustled past where Crowley had sat himself on the sofa and went to pour them both a cup of tea from the pot, carrying both cups to the mall sitting area. He handed one to Crowley, struggling to ignore the flash of tingles across his skin when their fingertips brushed over the handle of the mug, then sat himself in the armchair next to where Crowley was lounging. 

Crowley blew on his tea, then set it down and heaved a deep sigh. Azirpahale braced himself for what Crowley might say next. It could be anything, and the suspense was making him virtually tremble with anxiety. 

“I know you saw the photos Gabriel brought you… the photos of me, back when I was turning tricks,” he said, surprising Azirpahale with the directness of his words. “I won’t waste time denying that I spent a few years shagging blokes for money.”

“Crowley, I never thought that-”

“Please Aziraphale, let me finish. This is tough. Just… just let me talk OK?” Crowley took off his shades and folded them into his pocket, then looked over at Aziraphale with eyes so full of worry and pain that Aziraphale almost gasped out loud at the sight of them. He obediently shut his mouth and folded his hands over his knees to keep from twisting them together, nodding to show he understood. 

“It was a time in my life I’m not all that proud of,” Crowley continued, casting his eyes down to where his own hands were fiddling with a cardboard coaster from the coffee table. “My boyfriend at the time had tossed me out on the street because I wouldn’t turn tricks to help him pay the rent, and ironically, the idea hadn’t seemed so outlandish, once it wasn’t coming from someone who was supposed to love me.”

“And so, I did a lot of hustling,” he continued. “I was popular, and I made a good bit of money. Blew far too much of it on alcohol and weed… but overall, it wasn’t all that bad. No one attacked me. No one harmed me. No one tried to force me…” he broke off, pausing for a minute before speaking again. “I met this bloke, named Will,” he said softly. “Anathema told me you saw pictures of us together. Looks like Gabriel was thorough with his investigation,” his voice clouded with bitterness for just a moment before he went on. “Will took me in and gave me a safe place to stay. He never pushed me, didn’t ask for sex, but I offered anyway. I felt like I owed him for how kind he was being. Turns out, he had erectile dysfunction pretty bad. A medical condition brought on by a swollen gland, and he couldn’t get an erection. But… we found… other ways to be close. He liked to watch me touch myself.” Crowley paused again, but the quality of the silence was clearly one of nostalgia rather than shame. Crowley was not _ashamed_ of the relationship he described. Instead, he sounded sad. Regretful.

“We fell in love,” Crowley continued. “I know it sounds sordid. Younger man falls for older letch who can’t get it up. Hustler off the streets falls for wealthy sugar daddy. Believe me, I can imagine.” He huffed out a small, humorless laugh. “People have told me plenty about what they thought of our relationship over the years. But you have to believe me Aziraphale, we were head over heels for each other. He was so very kind. So very giving and funny and sweet. He gave me hope that I actually deserved someone _good_. Someone like…” he stopped then, his voice failing him momentarily. 

Aziraphale realized belatedly that his eyes had misted over while Crowley spoke, and he self consciously scrubbed at them with his sleeve. 

“He was the one with all the plants,” Crowley said. “He was the _friend_ I mentioned who got me interested in horticulture. He offered to pay for my tuition at Cornell, and at first I flat out refused. I refused over and over, not wanting his charity, not wanting him to think I’d be taking advantage. It was too much. Too generous. But eventually, I relented. He kept insisting, and he told me it was so I could find a better life. He had AIDS you see. He was getting sick, even then, back before I left for the states. He knew he wouldn’t be around forever, and he wanted to do something good with his money.”

“He died just a few months after I started at Cornell,” Crowley said softly, with that same sad, faraway tone he’d used in the car when Aziraphael had asked him what had drawn him to horticulture in the first place, and Aziraphale felt it all falling into place at last. 

Crowley had _loved_ Will _._ Crowley had been _heartbroken_ over Will’s death _._ All at once, Crowley’s words the first time they’d kissed came back to him.

_‘_ _If you let me in, I’ll be in serious trouble. I’ll be a total wreck. I’ve had my heart broken once. It was... so painful’_

“Oh Crowley, I’m so very sorry,” he breathed, feeling the truth come crashing in on him in a rush that left him momentarily lost as to what to do or say next. 

“So you see Aziraphale, Gabriel was smart when he dug up those pictures of me. It didn’t look all that good from an outsider’s perspective. He probably assumed I was an opportunistic gold digger, and he had a wealth of evidence to support his claim. He believed it, and apparently... so did you.” This last part was said with a hint of bitterness that tore at Aziraphale’s heart. 

“Crowley,” he said, feeling helpless and wretched. He reached out a hand toward the other man, letting it hang uselessly in the air between them for a split second before dropping it back in his lap. “I was so scared,” he said. “I thought why would someone like you ever fall for someone like me. I thought...Jesus, Crowley, I don’t know what I thought. I was so turned around, and so confused and so in love-” he stopped himself abruptly, realizing he was getting more emotional, and was on the verge of letting it all out. All of his faithless, twisted fears and assumptions. 

Crowley stood up, unfolding his long body from the sofa. He put his hands on his narrow hips and looked determinedly at a spot a few feet above Aziraphale’s head. “None of that matters anymore,” he said, his voice sounding weary and apprehensive. “The only thing that matters is how you feel _now_ Aziraphale. Do you still think we need to go over our feelings? Do you still believe that I could take advantage of you for your money? Because if you do, I’ll take my leave, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“I love you!” Aziraphale blurted it out, like a blasted fool. What else was there to say really? He saw Crowley’s eyes go wide, saw the man’s mouth fall open in surprise. Not wanting to lose his advantage, he stood up as well, wringing his hands together. His eyes locked with Crowley’s and held. “ _I love you_ ,” he repeated, this time letting the truth of his feelings fill up those three simple words, letting Crowley hear the anguish and the longing and the terror he was feeling. “I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you Crowley. I never _stopped_ loving you. I was an idiot, and I-I never should have shut you out. I was just _so terrified_. I didn’t know what to think.” 

Crowley closed the distance between them in two steps and had Aziraphale in his arms in an instant. His long fingered hands were framing Aziraphale’s face and his large liquid gold eyes were gazing deeply into Aziraphale’s, wet with unshed tears. 

“Angel,” he said, "I know you were scared. I know you didn't know what to think. I'm so bloody angry that it was Gabriel who made you believe all that shit about me. I need to know that you're done with him, that you don't believe him anymore. That you won't drop me the next time you get scared. Can you give me some reassurance that this can work?"

Aziraphale looked back into Crowley's eyes and hoped beyond hope that he could convince this wonderful man of his sincerity. "Crowley, all I can do is tell you that I'll try. I never want to see Gabriel again, and I hate it that he got to me that way. He knows all my buttons so well and which ones to push to make me feel like complete garbage. I should have known better, but my loving you so much, it made me scared. It made me blind. I got stuck thinking you could never want me, and he played into those fears. All I can do now is work hard to show you just how much I love you and need you and want you. Crowley, I was miserable without you, please take me back."

"Ah Jesus angel. I'm sorry you had to feel that way for even a minute. I want to be with you too, so very much." Crowley paused then, seeming to struggle with what to say next, but Aziraphale had other plans. He leaned up just a little and pressed his lips to Crowley’s. 

The kiss was soft and delicate. Just their lips touching gently. A tentative first step. An olive branch extended and received. Aziraphale heard Crowley sigh, and he let his own pent up breath out in a gust through his nose, against Crowley’s cheek. 

And then Crowley made a different sort of noise entirely and his arms came around Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulled Aziraphale tighter against him, and then everything changed. The kiss turned hungry and urgent. Their mouths were suddenly open and wet and sliding together and Aziraphale felt every single one of his nerve endings bloom with sparks of lust. “Crowley,” he whimpered against the other man’s lips when they broke apart briefly, feeling weak and hot and dizzy with how badly he wanted the red haired man in his arms. “Crowley, I’ll never do that to you again. I’ll never shut you out again. I promise,” he said in a rush, mingling their breath together, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with Crowley. Crowley nodded, looking back at Aziraphale with eyes lust blown and earnest and full of need. 

“I love you angel,” he rasped out and then crashed their mouths back together. His hands were all over Aziraphale, gripping his neck, wrapping themselves in Aziraphale’s hair, sliding down the sides of Aziraphale’s arms, trying to pull him as close as possible. Aziraphale gripped Crowley by his hips and hauled him closer too, tight against him, until they could both feel each other, stiff and hot through the material of their trousers. The pure pleasure of that desperate friction made them both gasp in tandem. 

“Come upstairs,” Azirpahale said between kisses. 

“Lead the way,” Crowley responded, smiling against Aziraphale’s mouth. 

Somehow they made it up the stairs and into Aziraphale’s modest bedroom, with only three breaks for kissing, during each of which Crowley pressed Aziraphale up against the banister and ground them together, capturing the resulting moan from Aziraphale’s mouth with his own. 

They fell onto the bed and resumed kissing, wrapping arms around each other and holding each other tight. For a brief while, it felt like enough, just to hold Crowley close, to feel his mouth move like velvet against his own, to luxuriate in his body pressed against Aziraphale, long and slender and feeling like the best thing Aziraphale had ever touched. He ran trembling fingers through Crowley’s soft, copper hair, and breathed in the intoxicating smell of his skin, mingled with his posh cologne. Their kisses grew softer, gentler for a while, and eventually Crowley pulled away to look down into Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Angel,” he said, looking sad and flushed and happy all at once. “I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you so much too.” Aziraphale replied softly, wrapping his fingers in the collar of Crowley’s shirt as if he were afraid he’d leave again immediately. “You can’t know how miserable I was without you.”

“Yeah, actually, I think I can,” Crowley replied with a small smile, then bent his head to kiss Aziraphale gently, once on either cheek and then his forehead and then back to his mouth. “I don’t even wanna think about it. I want to be here, now with you.” 

Aziraphale nodded up at him in the spare seconds before Crowley leaned back in and kissed him again. And then, suddenly the gentle embrace and the soft, sweet kisses weren’t nearly enough any longer. The feel of Crowley’s lips against his lit something up inside Aziraphale, a hunger, a burning flame that he was sick to death of putting aside and snuffing out, sick to death of pretending it didn’t exist. 

He parted his lips and slid his tongue tentatively back into Crowley’s warm, wet mouth and heard Crowley moan deep in his chest as the kiss deepened and grew more urgent. Crowley began insistently pulling Aziraphale’s jacket from his shoulders, and Azirpahale rolled around a bit to help him, never breaking the contact of their mouths. Once they’d divested Aziraphale of his jacket, he helped Crowley’s blind fingers to undo his bow tie and threw it across the room, and then they both started in working on the buttons of Crowley’s shirt. Aziraphale slipped his hand inside and palmed the silky skin over Crowley’s ribs, both of them groaning at the feel of touching and being touched. 

Crowley’s hands were working at the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, then his shirt next, and when he finally got all of those buttons undone, he growled in frustration at finding a vest underneath. This was quickly remedied when Crowley simply drove his fingers under the hem of the undershirt and ran them up Aziraphale’s belly and over his chest, rucking the material up as he went. 

“I know I said I wanted to undress you slowly angel,” he mumbled, “but I’m feeling a sense of urgency here, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

Aziraphale got the hint and swiftly helped pull his vest up and over his head, shedding his waistcoat and shirt in the process. Crowley shrugged his own shirt, a silky, slippery thing, from his narrow shoulders and for a few thrilling moments they luxuriated in the pure pleasure of pressing their chests and bellies together with nary a stitch between them. 

“You feel so good angel, _so fucking good_ ,” Crowley was saying as he trailed soft, wet kisses across Aziraphale’s cheek, heading for his neck. Aziraphale, having experienced what Crowley’s mouth could do to the sensitive skin there, felt himself shiver with anticipation. He busied himself with reaching a hand down to grab a fistful of Crowley’s firm arse, an action that made the man hiss and then moan and thrust his pelvis against Aziraphale’s. Just then, Crowley latched onto the junction of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder with his mouth, sucking with a gentle pressure that made Aziraphale’s eyes roll back in pleasure. 

“Darling,” he gasped, “I think it might be best if we took our trousers off, don’t you?” He felt drunk, his head swimming with lust, his body lit up with tingling pleasure at the feel of Crowley’s clever, hot mouth sucking at his neck. The man’s lithe body was writhing against him and he found himself thrusting back, trying to press them together as tightly as possible. 

He felt Crowley nod, felt the vibrations of his responding grunt against his skin, and almost moaned in disappointment when Crowley broke contact. They separated briefly, each of them racing to see who could get their trousers and pants off the fastest, then hurriedly pressed together again. Aziraphale could feel every intoxicating inch of Crowley silky naked body against his own, from the top of his chest to where their feet met and tangled together. He gasped at the feel of it, and heard a twin gasp escape Crowley’s lips.

“Fuck angel, fuck. This is too good already and I haven’t even touched your cock.” Crowley, an expression of disbelief painted across his features was looking at Aziraphale with hot intensity. He moved, hiked himself up a little against Aziraphale, and they both cried out softly with this new friction. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said gruffly, just to say the man’s name, and reached down between them and wrapped his hand around Crowley’s base. Crowley gasped and threw his head back, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily and Aziraphale dared to look down to admire the sight of him. Crowley’s cock was dark and stiff and leaking and it felt so good, gripped in Aziraphale’s hand, velvety soft and rock hard at the same time. He experimented with a short stroke halfway up Crowley’s length and the other man gasped anew and thrust his hips gently, rocking into the circle of Aziraphale’s closed fist. 

“ _Aziraphale_ …” Crowley’s voice was strained, his brows were knit beautifully over eyes that were flicking back and forth between Aziraphale’s hand around his cock and Aziraphale’s face, as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted to look at more. “We should slow down just a little, or else I’ll come way sooner than I want to.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said smiling, moving his hand very slowly indeed over Crowley’s hot, tortured length as he looked steadily into Crowley’s eyes. “I can go slow darling. I can go very... _very_...slow.” He drew the words out to match the pace of his gently moving hand and watched as Crowley’s eyes unfocused and his mouth fell open. 

“Oh fuck angel,” Crowley swallowed and licked his lips, his chest rising and falling swiftly, his face and neck and chest flushed with arousal. “Your hand, your fucking _hand_.” He let his head fall weakly forward onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and let Aziraphale play with him for a moment longer before he sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly put his hand over Aziraphale’s, stilling it. “That’s quite enough of that,” he growled, freeing himself gently from Aziraphale’s grasp and breathing slowly, clearly centering himself and pulling himself back from the edge. 

Once he was out of imminent danger, he rolled himself on top of Aziraphale, the weight of his body pressing them together in new ways that had Aziraphale gasping. Crowley looked down into his eyes and grinned. “I made you a promise on the phone that one night,” he said, wriggling just a bit on top of the other man and smiling at how that simple movement made Aziraphale cry out softly and grab at Crowley’s hips. 

“You did?” Aziraphale managed to ask, his lust drunk brain struggling to think back to the specifics of their phone sex call and failing miserably. “What was it that you promised me?”

“I think I’ll just show you,” Crowley’s grin grew wider and he bent his head to place a searing hot kiss to Aziraphale’s collar bone...then another to his upper chest. He wiggled a bit lower and then closed his wet mouth over Aziraphale’s right nipple. Sparks exploded deep in Aziraphale’s belly and he arched up into Crowley’s mouth with a whimper. Crowley raked his teeth gently over Azirpahale’s nipple, seeming to delight in the ridiculous noises this caused the other man to make. He didn’t linger there though, and soon he was placing a series of brief, sucking kisses down onto Aziraphale’s belly. Aziraphale stifled the urge to wrap his arms around his middle in order to hide it from Crowley’s mouth and hands. His arms twitched to start the action of doing so, before falling back as Aziraphale mentally demanded of his body that it lay still and simply luxuriate under Crowley’s touch

Crowley must have sensed this, because he gripped Aziraphale by the wrists and held him down gently while he continued to kiss lower. He also started speaking, in a breathless, reverent voice, telling Aziraphale how gorgeous he was, how beautiful, how exciting Crowley found his body, and how perfect Aziraphale looked. The praise washed against the wall of self conscious, self hating, defeating attitudes that had built up around him for decades and washed a bit of the now crumbling wall away. Aziraphale thought distantly that maybe if they made love another ten times, and if Crowley told him all those lovely things each time they did so, that a sizeable chunk it would be worn away, and maybe wouldn’t come back again. He hoped so anyway. 

He swiftly ceased to worry about the size and shape of his body though, as he felt Crowley’s mouth envelop the tip of his cock. Crowley’s lips and forefront of his tongue were cool from the man breathing enthusiastically through his mouth, panting with want for Azirpahale, but as he sank lower, sank more of Aziraphale into him, the back of his mouth and throat felt hot, so hot by comparison. Aziraphale moaned and thrust up gently into that hot mouth, and he heard Crowley whine against him and grip him urgently by the hips. 

“Do you like that darling? When I thrust into your mouth like that?” 

More wrecked noises from Crowley and an eager nod. 

“I’ll come soon dearest, I won’t last long. Is that alright with you? If I come like this?” Aziraphale asked while he quickly wound the fingers of both hands into Crowley’s hair.

Louder moans from Crowley and more vigorous head nodding gave Aziraphale the permission he was seeking, and so, taking a deep breath, he tested Crowley’s resolve by thrusting a bit harder than last time. He felt a spasm of excitement twitch deep inside when Crowley made the most ruined, guttural noise of pleasure in response, and pushed himself down further on Azirpahale’s cock. He sucked with devastating pressure on the way back up and then sank down again, while Aziraphale tightened his hands in Crowley’s copper tresses and struggled not to fuck the other man’s mouth with total abandon. He kept his thrusts measured, just nudging the back of Crowley’s throat with every inward press of his hips. He was riding the edge of orgasm, knowing he couldn’t last much longer, but never wanting Crowley to stop sucking him. 

His struggle to keep from coming must have reflected on his face, because Crowley pulled up and off him with a wet pop and looked up into Azirpahale’s eyes. “You can come whenever you want,” he said, with his red lips, wet and bruised from what they’d just been doing to Aziraphale’s cock. “Don’t hold back. We can do this again… a lot… whenever you want,” he said, and Aziraphale swore he fell even further in love with him in that moment. 

“Alright,” he nodded weakly and watched, enthralled as his beautiful lover grinned up at him briefly before sinking his mouth back onto Aziraphale’s cock, all the way to the hilt. Crowley moaned in the back of his throat, and Aziraphale could _feel_ it, and in a few short thrusts, he was exploding. 

“Fuck, _Crowley_ , _Fuck_ ,” he gasped out as his orgasm peaked and surged. Crowley rode through it with him, hands at Aziraphale’s hips, holding him down and making encouraging noises, moaning back at Aziraphale’s open mouthed cries. Eventually, Aziraphale started the long, slow drift back down to earth and Crowley, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth, crawled up and into Aziraphale’s arms.

Aziraphale was stunned, beyond speech, he held onto Crowley and caught his breath and planted soft kisses to Crowley’s flushed face. Crowley snuggled up, tucking himself against Aziraphale’s side, slinging an arm across his chest, a leg over his lower belly. 

“Angel, you taste delicious,” Crowley said as he nosed into Aziraphlae’s neck, nuzzling in with his face until it was buried there, in the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I could suck you every day,” he mumbled, voice muffled against Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale, struggling currently with the execution of simple speech, responded drunkenly “I’d be happy to let you my dear. That… that was… transcendent.” He stared dreamily up at the ceiling, what was probably a ridiculous smile plastered across his face as he held Crowley in his arms.

Soon though, Crowley’s erection, jutting hotly against Aziraphale’s leg, reminded him that Crowley hadn’t come yet. 

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale hummed into Crowley’s ear. “I think that cock of yours needs some attention.” He smiled as Crowley made a strangled sound and thrust himself against Aziraphale’s side. He swiftly rolled Crowley onto his back, and spent some time exploring the skin of Crowley’s chest and belly with hungry kisses before he took the other man’s cock into his mouth. It was indescribable, the feel of Crowley, hot and thick and just a little salty. Azirpahale’s tongued the slit at the top, tasting the precum that oozed there before sinking down on Crowley to the hilt. In less than two minutes he had the other man shouting and arching up into his mouth, feeling the lovely taste of him spurt across his tongue. 

Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms in stunned yet comfortable silence for a long time, stroking each other’s skin with gentle fingertips and exchanging lazy kisses. 

Aziraphale could never remember being this happy. So happy it unnerved him a little. If it had hurt so sharply to have Crowley walk away from him before they’d ever made love, how horribly devastating would it be after they traded pleasure like _this_ , even a few more times. He was already so in love that he felt his chest constrict with it. What would happen if Crowley left tomorrow? Or a week from now? A month? A year?

“Hey,” Crowley’s soft voice broke through his worries as the man’s long fingers gripped Aziraphale’s chin and gently turned his face towards him. “Don’t get up in your head angel. I can see it happening,” he whispered, smiling warmly at Aziraphale. “Stay here with me,” he murmured, leaning in and pressing a kiss to the very tip of Aziraphale’s nose. 

Aziraphale ducked in and caught Crowley’s lips in a brief kiss as he pulled away. “I’m sorry my dear, I tend to worry sometimes.”

“Me too, just… don’t let it get you in a bad place before you let me in on it yes?” Crowley asked, his voice tender and his eyes searching Aziraphale’s face. “That way, I can try to pull you back out again...Can we try that?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I should also find a therapist I think,” he said, smiling gently at Crowley.

“Sure angel. I’ll find one too. We’ve been through a lot. I want this, what we have, to last, and I’m tired of our ghosts getting in the way. I know we aren’t just going to one day wake up and be perfectly OK, but we’ve been battling it out on our own for a long time now. I think therapy is a good idea.”

“I love when you say romantic things,” Aziraphale smiled warmly and pulled Crowley closer. He was serious too. Hearing that Crowley wanted to work on their relationship and their own mental health right from the start was a refreshing change from Gabriel, who’d graduated top of his class from the school of sweep-it-under-the-rug.

“Well, you’re in luck then,” Crowley smiled. “I plan on saying many many romantic things to you on a regular basis.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Full of fluff and love and closure (and just a little bit of smut).
> 
> Thanks all you lovely commenters for saying such lovely things. You make it all worth it! Stay safe, stay cozy and keep reading!

Things moved along carefully from that point onward. They decided to simply date each other for a while to see how that dynamic worked for them. Crowley knew he wanted to be with Aziraphale, live with Aziraphale and wake up every day beside him, but he also knew that they’d both been through the ringer with the circumstances under which they’d fallen in love. They desperately needed time to figure out their connection and their own boundaries. They needed time to go to dinner, to the cinema, to spend time socially with friends while holding hands under the table. All the simple things of a burgeoning new relationship that both of them had yearned for for so long and never had the chance to simply enjoy.

And they ended up enjoying it very much. They went out to eat a few times a week, but just as often, Aziraphale would have Crowley over and make him dinner, or the reverse, Crowley would make a big pot of pasta and he, Aziraphale and Beez would eat together, have a few glasses of wine and laugh into the night. At least until Aziraphale and Crowley retired to Crowley’s bedroom to make love, which they did as often as they possibly could. 

Crowley had always known he’d had a high sex drive, and Aziraphale met him and easily kept pace with his desires. Both of them had suffered a severe lack of sex and affection, of intimate human connection for a long time, and they drank from each other deeply as the weeks turned into months. In the very beginning, they spent almost the entirety of several of their days off, in bed together. This usually happened at Aziraphale’s, as Beez tended to get testy when they locked themselves in Crowley’s bedroom and shagged all day over at their place.

Eventually though, once the intense, desperate need to consume each other eased a little bit with time and repetition, they both learned that neither of them was going anywhere. Crowley’s new therapist (his first ever), Dr. Murkowski, told him that probably part of the reason they were so intensely sexual was that they both feared that the proverbial relationship rug could be pulled out from under them at any moment, making each time feel like a fated, last time. She pointed out that they both had a history of being betrayed and losing love, and that once they realized that the other was here to stay, things would cool down naturally. Not that Crowley was complaining. Whether or not his constant lust for Aziraphale’s body was a coping mechanism, it was incredibly hot and incredibly satisfying.

They slowly built up a strong foundation of trust as well as playfulness in their ongoing love making. Crowley had never been so ridiculously happy. 

There were hiccups here and there. Gaps in communication they didn’t even recognize as gaps until one of them got activated or confused. Crowley was more plain spoken. He came from the school of ‘rip the bandaid off quick,’ whereas Aziraphale had a penchant for being accommodating and self sacrificing, while burying his own needs in the process. On the surface, it would seem like Crowley’s approach was the healthier or more productive one, but sometimes, approaching everything with a blunt instrument wasn’t the best way to communicate. 

It took them a solid week before Aziraphale got up the nerve to tell Crowley that he liked bottoming more than topping. Not that he didn’t absolutely love topping Crowley. He told Crowley that opening him up slowly and fucking him deep was never a hardship, but he’d apparently started to worry that asking Crowley to switch wouldn’t be taken the right way. Then he’d started getting a little quiet and withdrawn after sex, necessitating Crowley to do some digging. 

Eventually, with some careful questions from Crowley, Aziraphale admitted that he’d quite like to be fucked himself. Crowley complied happily and a very enjoyable evening was spent with Crowley topping. It was so good in fact, with Aziraphale coming completely, beautifully unraveled by Crowley’s thrusts, that they ended up switching almost entirely. As it turned out, Crowley had bottomed because he thought it was what Aziraphale wanted. Communication, they quickly learned, was key. 

Crowley was figuring out the ways Aziraphale’s brain worked. The ways he hid things because he was afraid of asking for what he needed. The ways it took him longer than usual to work up the courage to ask for things. Crowley strove diligently at times to pull out the truth from the insecurities and fears, but he wouldn’t do all the work. He required Aziraphale to speak up for himself as much as possible. And during this process, he realized that the trauma of his childhood and early, abusive relationships had done a number on him as well… that he too had to learn to open up.

They also had the chance, during those months that they decided to live separately and date, to spend many an enjoyable evening with their friends. At least two or three times a month, if not twice a week, he and Aziraphale and Beez would get together with Anathema, Dierdre (sometimes with Newt and Arthur in tow, and sometimes not), as well as Tracy, and even Sandy and Adelle. It was so reassuring to have a family of close friends to spend time with, and the group of them quickly became just that, a family. A network of emotional support. 

They both continued working, Aziraphale at the shop and with tutoring jobs and book refurbishment and acquisition, Crowley at his new greenhouse job. Aziraphale missed being able to help Crowley with the plants, and after he mentioned this, Crowley realized he missed having plants nearby as well and started slowly drafting up plans to build a greenhouse of his own. The landlord of his flat said it would be fine to install a watering and heating system in the spare room with the skylight, and Crowley began filling the space with all his favorite plants. 

It was through the development of his own greenhouse that Crowley realized that he didn't really want to teach at the university level. He’d thought he wanted to return to school because he’d had no home, no anchor, and he’d felt useless. Now, his life was full of love and sex and friends and he was making a great living at his current job. 

What he’d decided to do instead of going back to school, was to invest some time in giving back to the neighborhood where he’d grown up, and surrounding areas where there were still a lot of issues with poverty and drug abuse and crime. He started up a gardening program to teach kids how to grow and care for plants. Together, he and the twenty or so children and teens that got involved, created and maintained a large vegetable and herb garden with raised beds in an open plot of land between shabby apartment buildings. It had been relatively easy to get a permit from the city to start up the project, and it helped provide the kids and their families with fresh produce. It also taught the kids valuable skills about growing plants, working together and building community pride. 

Aziraphale devoted some time to the project as well, coming around once a week to read to the little ones, and to offer free tutoring to children who needed it and couldn’t afford it. Neither of them wanted children of their own, but they both liked kids and working together to help children who’d grown up just like Crowley was cathartic and fulfilling in a very deep way for Crowley (and for Aziraphale to hear the man talk about it with his eyes all gleaming with joy.)

Eventually, they moved in together in Crowley’s place. It was a tad crowded with the three of them living there, and in a fortuitous turn of events, Beez agreed to move into Aziraphale’s place above the shop and to help him out during the week. Beez and Sandy struck up a cautious, professional relationship that eventually bloomed into a friendship. They had absolutely nothing in common except perhaps an enduring love of science fiction, which, come to think of it, had been the basis of many successful associations. 

Beez earned a tattoo, piercing and electrolysis certificate and began an apprenticeship for tattooing. They also continued working at the restaurant where they waited tables as well as helping out part time at Aziraphale’s shop. They did an admirable job of driving away unwanted customers while still being knowledgeable enough about the contents of the shop (after spending a lot of time going over specifics with Aziraphale), to be a wonderful bookshop clerk. Aziraphale charged them a ridiculously low rent in exchange for their help in the shop. He didn’t have to charge Beez rent at all, but he was aware how much the siblings disliked abject charity. 

Crowley had an entire wall of his spacious living area outfitted with bookshelves so that Aziraphale could bring a few hundred of his favorites with him when he moved in. Crowley insisted that his bare, sleek, austere looking flat was just fine the way it was and that Aziraphale was _not_ to “frill it up” with floral patterned curtains or charming watercolor landscape paintings. Aziraphale had nodded indulgently and then completely ignored Crowley and began bringing his own style to the space, managing to sneak his own touches into the flat slowly and gently, as if to fly under the radar of Crowley's notice. They acquired a faded oriental rug, a comfy armchair, an antique ship in a bottle and several chipped china teacups so gradually that Crowley barely noticed until it was too late. One day, he looked around at their flat and saw signs of Aziraphale everywhere. And he let it happen too. Let his slick, intimidating bachelor pad become a cozy nest for two with nary a struggle. He did however put his foot down when Aziraphale asked if they could move the old, beat up sofa in to replace Crowley’s black leather couch. 

It was far too much fun to walk through home decor shops with Aziraphale, picking out towels and curtain fabric and throw rugs. It felt so very domestic and Crowley was surprised at how quickly and happily he settled into this domesticity. Though, it couldn’t be ignored that they were both middle aged men, and settling down should have sort of naturally happened for them anyway, that it probably would have happened years ago, if they’d been in a position to find a suitable partner. As it turns out, they were _each other’s_ most suitable partner. Crowley had waited for someone like Aziraphale to come along for the entirety of his life. A partner to share daily joys and hardships with, to find new excitement and have new experiences with. Aziraphale, for as different as he was from Crowley, fit Crowley like a warm glove. 

Beez eventually met and began dating a nice woman, named Prescott, who instead of having dependency issues and a propensity for domestic violence, loved to knit and go for long walks about the city and who also had quite a few tattoos. The two of them were utterly adorable together and Prescott’s wry sense of humor and ability to shrug off the small stuff made her a perfect match for cynical, snarky Beez. Crowley and Aziraphale and all their friends happily enfolded Beez’s new girlfriend into the group, and she joined them for many an evening of drinks at the local pub, movie nights, and the large family style dinners they all had at least once a month and on holidays. 

Aziraphale, with Crowley’s urging, finally published a slim volume of his poems. He’d published under the name A. Fell, to avoid connection with Gabriel, and still his book sold a few hundred copies. Entitled _Eden’s Gates_ , it had a forward that said simply:

_‘To Crowley, Thank you for giving me wings’_

After they’d lived together for a few months, Crowley got it in his head that he just _had_ to propose. He felt it in his gut, this urge to bond with Aziraphale in that way, and maybe just a little to show him just how _good_ a marriage could actually be. And he wanted to make a promise to stick by Aziraphale’s side until the end of their days on this earth. It was all very mushy and uncomfortable, and Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He went to Deirdre and Anathema for advice.

“What sort of ring would he like?” Crowley asked the women where they sat on the sofa in he and Aziraphale’s flat. “He and Voldemort (their new name for Gabriel) had plain gold bands, which is nice and all, I mean, if you weren’t married to the prince of darkness, but I really want to impress him and make it special.”

They’d both made cooing noises and smiled and squealed a little in response to this, and then gave him some genuinely good ideas. 

“He loves Opals, they’re his birthstone,” this from Anathema

“And he loves simple, old fashioned things,” this from Deirdre

“And he loves gold in general,” Anathema added. 

“Well, you didn’t have to remind me about the old fashioned part,” Crowley said with a roll of his eyes. “Our flat is starting to look like Antiques Roadshow, but thank you for the other ideas. Any chance I could get you two to go shopping with me? We can bring Beez and Prescott, too. Make it a family affair?”

Anathema and Deirdre seemed to think this was a fantastic idea, and a trip to the shops ensued, ending in Crowley picking up what everyone could agree was the perfect ring for their fussy white chocolate cream puff angel. A bit more searching and they found a ring suiting Crowley’s taste that he thought Aziraphale would like as well. Beez meanwhile made nervous jokes about proposing to Prescott, who laughed back equally nervously and turned pink.

Crowley wasn’t sure when and how he should propose. Looking for advice, he’d gone to Newt and Arthur.

“How did you propose to Deirdre?” He asked of Arthur in between sips on their beers. 

“Oh, I didn’t do anything special. I simply had her sister nick their grandmother’s engagement ring, had it sized for Deirdre and asked her while we both stood under the full moon by the Thames after going out to her favorite restaurant.”

Newt and Crowley stared at Arthur with mouths hanging open.

“That’s quite special,” Crowley responded.

“Yes, quite,” Agreed Newt. 

“And you Newt?” Crowley turned questioning eyes to Newt’s face. Newt blushed. The man always blushed whenever Crowley talked to him. Crowley and Anathema not so secretly found it adorable. 

“Well, I asked her by mistake,” Newt said, ducking his head a little and turning a darker shade of pink. 

“You what?” Crowley, eyebrows lifting above his shades was genuinely curious to hear Newt explain.

“She um...she and I, we were at the grocer’s, and she was looking for bok choy, and she turned and asked me if I liked bok choy because she couldn't remember, and I just spat it out.”

“You asked her to marry you in the vegetable section at the grocer’s?” Crowley was honestly impressed.

“Yeah, I just said it. ‘Will you marry me?’ I hadn’t thought it out, and it hadn’t been brought up before. I mean we were nuts about each other, but we hadn’t had a conversation about it. It just sort of slipped out. She just looked so beautiful under those neon lights above the veg trays and I couldn’t help myself.” Newt grinned at the memory. 

“Huh,” Crowley remarked. “Well, Aziraphale would probably appreciate something a bit more romantic than that, though, I give you full marks for expediency,” he grinned. 

“Just do what feels good,” Newt replied, still blushing a little. “Aziraphale is a sweet chap. He’ll probably be overjoyed.”

Crowley didn’t find this all that helpful, though he knew Newt meant well. He wanted the proposal to be special, but not in that silly, over the top way that gets highlighted on the telly, nor that hide-the-ring-in-a-piece-of-cake way that would likely result in a chipped tooth (if Aziraphale’s attitudes toward cake were taken into account).

In the end, it had come about quite organically. Aziraphale made them a lovely quiche for dinner with spinach and herbs and three types of cheese and afterward they settled in on the sofa for a movie, cuddled up together as they often were. Crowley felt warm and loved and safe and so extremely happy. He could feel the ring in his pocket, burning a proverbial hole in it. He’d taken to carrying it around for the past week, deciding that a spur of the moment proposal (much like Newt’s, but without the bok choy) would work best. 

“Did you want to watch that Bergman film dear?” Aziraphale was asking him, lazily stroking his thumb back and forth over the top of Crowley’s thigh in a way that made Crowley start to feel flushed and more than a little aroused. “Or is that too dark?” Aziraphale asked, kissing Crowley on the small serpent tattoo in front of his ear that Beez had given him a few months ago. 

Crowley took a deep breath and slid off the sofa, onto his knees on the floor and worked his way in between Aziraphale’s legs, sliding his hands up the other man’s thighs and gazing at him with a face he was almost certain betrayed all the love and adoration he felt for Aziraphale in that moment. 

“Oh my!” Aziraphale exclaimed, swallowing thickly as a sly smile made its way across his face. “Or we could do whatever it is that’s got you down on your knees right now my dear. That would also be lovely.”

“Angel, will you marry me?” Crowley asked, heart in his throat. He watched Aziraphale’s face go blank with surprise, then watched his mouth fall gently open as Crowley pulled out the ring. It was made up of a simple gold braid, studded with three opals at intervals along the crown of the ring. They’d found it in a shop that sold high end antiques and it had belonged to some long dead duke from the 1930s. Crowley had paid a pretty penny for it, but he’d thought it was perfect. 

Aziraphale gasped. “Crowley,” he whispered as Crowley held the ring up and waited, chest tight and pulse pounding for his answer. 

“Will you?” Crowley repeated, thinking suddenly that this might have been a bad idea. They’d never discussed their thoughts on marriage, only agreed that they wanted to grow old together. Perhaps Aziraphale had had enough of marriage? Maybe he was making the biggest mistake of his life by offering his boyfriend this ring…

His fears were short lived however, for Aziraphale’s eyes filled up with tears and he started nodding. “Yes… yes of course,” he choked out through a sob and pulled Crowley up and into his arms, squeezing him so tightly that Crowley squeaked a little from the intense pressure. “Of course my darling, darling boy. Of course I will,” he repeated through more sobs. Crowley held him and smiled into his neck and felt his heart bloom open with joy inside his chest. 

Eventually, Aziraphale released Crowley enough to kiss him, then he slipped the ring onto his finger and told Crowley it was perfect, just _perfect_ , and cried a bit more. 

More kissing ensued, and it quickly turned into the two of them removing their clothes in quite a hurried fashion so that they could make love on the sofa. As Crowley sank into the tight heat of Aziraphale’s body and gripped him by the hips, he whispered _I love you_ over and over into Aziraphale’s flushed ear. Aziraphale cried out and pulled him closer and they rocked together holding each other tightly and saying gentle, soft, breathless things until Crowley couldn’t take it any longer and lost control inside Aziraphale. As he did so, he gripped Aziraphale’s cock, and gave him a few quick strokes, and watched in awed affection while Aziraphale’s face flooded with pleasure as he spilled between their overheated bodies.

They lay together afterwards, panting and loose and wrapped up in each other’s arms, clothing lying in rumpled puddles on the floor and draped over the arm of the sofa. 

“I’ve made a mess of us,” Aziraphale said lazily, running slow fingers through Crowley’s hair. 

“To be fair angel, it was really me who did the mess making. You were just an innocent bystander to my seduction attempt.”

“Yes my dear. You tempted me into sinful fornication. I never would have done it otherwise.” The smile in Aziraphale’s voice made Crowley’s heart feel warm and glowing inside his chest. He nuzzled closer, ignoring the sweet smelling puddle between them. 

The next morning, he woke to Aziraphale sitting with the paper in his lap, looking pale and confused. 

“What’s wrong love?” he asked, bending to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek where the man was sitting at the breakfast table, paper gripped in his hands. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Wordlessly, Azirpahale lifted the paper so that Crowley could see. On the front page was a picture of Gabriel. Crowley barely avoided flinching at the sight of that bastard’s face again after thinking the man was banished from their lives. “What..” he said, at first confused by what he was seeing. 

Then he saw the headline, large and bold. _Relationship Guru Caught Red Handed In Night Club Tryst_. His eyes narrowed and he grabbed the paper out of Azirpahale’s hands. 

His eyes scanned the words under the headline, next to the grinning, smug picture of Gabriel at a book signing event. “Gabriel Archer, author of a series of highly successful books on how to keep love and passion alive in modern day marriages was photographed in a night club last weekend, in the company of a barely legal male prostitute.” He heard his voice rising in disbelief as he read. “Archer,” he continued reading out loud after wordlessly ascertaining from Aziraphale’s nod that it was OK to keep going, “was photographed in the company of a young man in the famed Zaybars night club, an establishment known for being frequented by male prostitutes and for it’s wild private parties. It seems that Archer, who’d just celebrated the publication of his fifth top selling novel, entitled _How To Divorce From The Heart_ , decided to stop into Zaybars for a quick drink and a snog session with a barely legal hustler. This is quite the departure from what he espouses in his books, as _How To Divorce From The Heart_ , is full of advice on how to practice ‘healing celibacy’ in order to bounce back after a separation. Archer appears to have written the book in the wake of his not-much publicized and very recent divorce from his husband of two decades, Aziraphale Fell. Regardless, this once admired spiritual guru and highly esteemed relationship counselor appears not to be taking his own advice.”

Crowley stopped reading and looked over at Aziraphale to find him looking grim. “That wanker,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “He got even richer by writing a book about _our divorce_.”

“Wait angel, it gets better,” Crowley held up a hand as he found his place in the article and continued reading aloud. “Archer refused to comment, saying only that he has a right to spend his personal time how he pleases, but rumor has it, from some reliable gossip sources that sneaking about with men less than half his age is par for the course for this spiritual dynamo.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and looked at Crowley with withering sarcasm. 

“No one has gotten a response from his ex, Mr. Fell, who now apparently lives in London and runs the A.Z Fell and Co Bookshop in Soho.” Crowley’s eyes went wide and he glanced over to Aziraphale to see his fiance’s face turn white. 

“Beez!” Crowley shouted, and Aziraphale nodded knowingly. 

After getting no answer on the phone, they rushed over to the bookshop with Crowley breaking quite a large number of traffic laws for all that it was a five minute drive. They pulled up to the shop to the sight of no less than four reporters and two news vans converging on the front door. Thankfully, Beez was hiding inside with Prescott, Sandy and Adelle, all four of them looking pale.

“Mr. Fell! Mr. Fell! Is it true that your ex husband was cheating on you? Did you know? What’s he like in his personal life?!”

Crowley shoved his way through the crowd of reporters and onlookers with a protective arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and they pried the shop door open and tumbled inside. 

“Hello,” Crowley said to the confused faces of he and Aziraphale’s friends and family. “Sorry about all this. Looks like Voldemort got caught trying to shag Harry.”

Aziraphale gave him a stern look but didn’t correct him. “Did any of you actually speak to the press?” he asked, tugging worriedly at his waistcoat. 

“Well…” Beez said guiltily. “I may have called him a twat to the first reporter who showed up.”

Aziraphale sighed and looked down at the floor. “I can’t blame you for that,” he said in a resigned tone. 

“I’m sorry, cream puff. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. But you know me… pulling punches isn’t my strong suit.”

Next to them, Prescott snorted at the obvious understatement and Beez grinned over at her. 

“It’s alright Beez,” Aziraphale replied with a sigh. I’ll go out and talk to them in a minute. I just need to catch my breath. This all happened so quickly. We just saw the paper this morning.”

“Yes,” Sandy piped up. “I think _everyone_ saw the paper this morning.” 

“This is going to be a mess.” Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair and sighed again, sounding stressed out. 

“Angel, I’ll go out there with you. I’ll talk to them. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“Thank you my dear. I’d rather hoped they’d just go away, but I’m sick and tired of Gabriel’s messes following me around. I didn’t realize he’d written another book because I so resolutely ignored anything in the press about him. I’m surprised reporters haven’t tried to reach out before now.”

“They’re vultures,” Beez said. “Gabriel publishing relationship self help books is far less interesting than Gabriel being caught with his hand on some teenager’s cock.” 

Good old Beez. They could always be relied upon to tell it like it is. 

“Lets go,” Azirpahale grabbed Crowley by the hand and pulled him gently toward the door. “I’m going to finish this once and for all.” 

Crowley obediently followed him to the door of the shop, where they both wedged their way out and made a small space for themselves. Two more news vans had shown up and Aziraphale and Crowley found several microphones thrust into their faces. Crowley stepped protectively in front of Aziraphale, only to have Aziraphale pull him back gently with a grateful smile. 

“My ex husband Gabriel Archer,” he said “Is a terrible person.” Crowley felt his eyebrows climbing in surprise at how to the point Aziraphale was being. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Aziraphale continued. “His books have a lot of merit, and he is very knowledgeable about what he espouses. He’s an intelligent man with a lot of drive and a wealth of knowledge on the topics about which he writes. But…” And here he paused, cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “That being said, he was a horrible husband. After the first decade or so of our marriage, he became picky, stingy, cold, critical and neglectful of me. We divorced because I found out he was cheating on me with a young man very like the boy he was caught chatting up in that night club. He’s a liar and a cheat and a letch, and I’m done with him. I won’t be available to speak further on this subject, and I’ll thank you to leave me and my family be from now on, as I have nothing further to say.” 

The gleeful hungry looks on the faces of the reporters surrounding them made Crowley feel slightly ill. He silently redoubled his hatred of Gabriel for having the audacity to put them both through this, long after they thought his presence in their lives was over and done with. As the crowd attempted to press in further, he stepped between them and Aziraphale and ushered his fiance back into the shop.

“I’m so proud of you angel,” he said, pulling Aziraphale into a fierce hug once they’d made their way to the back of the shop and away from prying eyes. 

“It was about time,” Aziraphale said, hugging back with another sigh. “I’m so sick to death of his ghost following me around.”

After a few reassuring kisses and another hug, they rejoined Sandy, Adelle, Beez and Prescott and informed them of Crowley’s proposal and that they were to be married. Beez hugged Crowley tightly and got very gruff and awkward like they usually did when feeling a lot of emotions, and everyone decided it was a good time to get very drunk while waiting for the reporters to give up and go away. 

  
  


_____________________________________________

The ceremony was small and lovely with only twenty or so of their closest friends and family. They held it at home in their shared flat, among their plants and books. Crowley repeated the vows after Aziraphale and kissed him soundly and they both cried a bit and clung to one another, while the small audience burst into whoops and cheers and applause. 

Later that night, when they were finally alone, after taking the time to make passionate and very enthusiastic love to each other, they lay, panting and damp and wrapped up in each other’s arms. Crowley had just started drifting off into a hazy, post orgasmic coma when Aziraphale’s voice woke him. 

“Darling husband,” he said, and Crowley turned his grinning face toward Aziraphale and kissed his cheek.

“Yes, husband?” he asked sleepily, wriggling closer and wondering how much of a nap he’d need to recharge enough for a second round. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, and his voice had gone serious all of a sudden, so Crowley lifted his head to look into his new husband’s luminous blue-gray eyes. 

“What for?” he asked, lifting a hand to stroke at Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“For finding me and helping to set me free,” Aziraphale said softly. 

“Oh angel,” Crowley breathed, feeling his heart full to bursting with love for the sweet, handsome man in his arms. “You saved me too.” He smiled and was pleased to see his smile echoed on Aziraphale’s face. 

“Well, just thank you Crowley, that’s all. I love you.”

“I love you too angel,” Crowley said as he rolled on top of his husband and kissed him, pressing him into the mattress with the weight of his body. 

He felt a glimmer of lust bloom inside his lower belly, and thought that perhaps he didn’t need a nap at all.


End file.
